Hark, o Denmark! Hark! Bellow, bid our father the Plastic Sovereign rise from the depths of the Lego bin, full foul in his fury! Rainbow waves teeming with mismatched bricks to torment this young mouth with bricks underfoot, to choke ye, as a choking hazard must, encasing your organs til' ye turn yellow and stiff and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in that broken space helmet, trailin' his bullshit specialty pieces take up his fell unfingered hand, his bullhorn-slash-gun screeching banshee-like in the playroom and shatters ye, disassemblin' - a minifig no more, but a blasted pile of plastic now and nothing for ages 8 and up to peck and claw and stick in their mouths, only to be swept up and dumped in the infinite depths of the Lego bin itself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the instruction sheet, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself naught but bricks and pegs and holes.