“More, please” whimpered young Oliver.

How much is too much when not enough just doesn’t cut the mustard?  And why would you need to cut mustard, when modern industry has largely taken over that?  To have a hole in one’s float bowl, then, to constantly want too much, went not enough, less, would do.

Did I interrupt you just now in the cutting of your mustard?

Has the little bit made you get sort of a taste of the kill, whet the appetite, so to speak, like chili fries appetizers?

Can you make a living if a living can’t be bought with what you get?  Or do you make do?

I think young Oliver has a tapeworm in his intestines, making him eat large amounts, making him, doubtless, never satisfied.  And chicken?  Oh does the boy know no bounds!

“What’s that Oliver?  Wart’s knees?” we say.

“Nay, suh” he says.  “I’m quite a-gut presently.”

“All we have left, young man, is salad gherkins, but fear not, plenty of that left.” we say.

“I suppose I’ll just go curl into a ball and die of hunguh, suh” says Oliver, turning and walking away.