Description truncated desktop, near miss

London fog was so thick one morning that I cut a slice and took it home. My cook fried it with onions. It tasted of coal and old rain. We sold the rest as gray wool, and a tailor in Leeds made me a fine suit that vanished at noon.

Drums can talk if you beat them politely. I had one at Vidin that gave gossip about the enemy. It told me where they kept the cake. Two of my men and I crept in and ate it all, and that loss broke the heart of their whole army.

Up at the North Pole there is a real pole, and I put it there. It was my tent post. I stuck it in the ice one windy night and lost interest by morning. Every ship since has gone looking for it. Someone should really bring me back my tent.

On clear nights the Moon used to sag over my estate. It scraped the chimneys and upset the hens. I climbed up with a hammer and a sack of nails. Six good blows fixed it to the sky. You may still see the dents, though astronomers call them craters to save face.

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so I read him.