#actually I should copy this in a letter to ryunosuke

[kazuma-asogi-blog]

Shrewd Simon Short sewed shoes. Seventeen summers, speeding storms, spreading sunshine successively, saw Simon’s small, shabby shop, still standing staunch, saw Simon’s selfsame squeaking sign still swinging silently specifying: Simon Short, Smithfield’s sole surviving shoemaker. Shoes sewed soles super finely.

Simon’s spry, sedulous spouse, Sally Short, sewed shirts, stitched sheets, stuffed sofas. Simon’s six stout sons — Seth, Samuel, Stephen, Saul, Silas, Shadrach – sold sundries. Sober Seth sold sugar, spices; simple Sam sold saddles, stirrups, screws; sagacious Stephen sold silks, satins, shawls; sceptical Saul sold silver salvers; selfish Shadrach sold salves, shoestrings, stops, saws, skates; slack Silas sold Sally Short’s stuffed sofas.

Some seven summers since, Simon’s second son Samuel saw Sophia Sophronia Spriggs somewhere. Sweet, smart, sensible Sophia Sophronia Spriggs. Sam soon showed strong symptoms. Sam seldom stayed storing, selling saddles. Sam sighed sorrowfully, sought Sophia Sophronia’s society, sang several serenades slyly. Simon stormed, scolded severely, said Sam seemed so silly singing such shameful, senseless songs. ‘Strange Sam should slight such splendid sales! Strutting spendthrift! Shattered-brained simpleton.’

‘Softly, softly, sire,’ said Sally. ‘Sam’s smitten; Sam’s spied some sweetheart.’

‘Sentimental schoolboy!’ snarled Simon. ‘Smitten! Stop such stuff.’ Simon sent Sally’s snuffbox spinning, seized Sally’s scissors, smashed Sally’s spectacles, scattering several spools. ‘Sneaking scoundrel! Sam’s shocking silliness shall surcease!’ Scowling, Simon stopped speaking, started swiftly shopward.

Sally sighed sadly. Summoning Sam, she spoke sweet sympathy. ‘Sam,’ said she, ‘Sire seems singularly snappy; so, solicit, sue, secure Sophronia speedily, Sam.’

‘So soon? So soon?’ said Sam, standing stock-still.

‘So soon, surely,’ said Sally, smiling, ‘specially since Sire shows such spirits.’

So Sam, somewhat scared, sauntered slowly. Shaking stupendously, Sam soliloquised: ‘Sophia Sophronia Spriggs, Spriggs — Short — Sophia Sophronia Short-Samuel Short’s spouse — sounds splendid! Suppose she should say — she shan’t — she shan’t!’

Soon Sam spied Sophia starching shirts, singing softly. Seeing Sam she stopped starching, saluting Sam smilingly. Sam stammered shockingly. ‘Spl-spl-splendid summer season, Sophia.’

‘Selling saddles still, Sam?’

‘Sar-sar-tin,’ said Sam, starting suddenly. ‘Season’s somewhat sudoriflc,’ said Sam, steadily, staunching streaming sweat, shaking sensibly.

‘Sartin,’ said Sophia, smiling significantly. ‘Sip some sweet sherbet, Sam.’ (Silence: sixty seconds.) ‘Sire shot sixty sheldrakes, Saturday,’ said Sophia.

‘Sixty? Shoot!’ said Sam. (Silence: seventy-seven seconds.)

‘See sister Susan’s sunflowers,’ said Sophia, socially, silencing such stiff silence.

Sophia’s sprightly sauciness stimulated Sam strangely; so Sam suddenly spoke sentimentally: ‘Sophia, Susan’s sunflowers seem saying Samuel Short, Sophia Sophronia Spriggs stroll serenely, seek some sequestered spot, some sylvan shade. Sparkling springs shall sing soul stirring strains; sweet songsters shall silence secret sighings; super-angelic sylphs shall —’

Sophia snickered; so Sam stopped. ‘Sophia,’ said Sam, solemnly. ‘Sam,’ said Sophia.

‘Sophia, stop smiling; Sam Short’s sincere. Sam’s seeking some sweet spouse, Sophia.’

Sophia stood silent.

‘Speak, Sophia, speak; such suspense speculates sorrow.’ ‘Seek, sire, Sam, seek sire.’

So Sam sought sire Spriggs. Sire Spriggs said, ‘Sartin.’

(I did not write this I googled long tongue twisters)

I'm not reading all that. My apologies, I...

Wait a minute, you were the one to sic van Zieks on me the other day, weren't you?

I see. You're making fun of me. Well. What if I were to assert that I just spoke aloud your entire message perfectly? If you want to claim I'm lying, the burden of proof is on you, my learned friend. I'd like to see what sort of evidence you can conjure up to the contrary.

Or you could give up and acknowledge my superior elocution.