A frequented delusion. Rust. A Bust. A vigour, costumed. Small song of a haggard, bloody moon. A lusty nonsense, a callow shroud, a dud squib croaking on a proud log, a swarthy trunk, bristling with thin solidity, a bloody steak, a bull, a nonsense, a quickening of delusion, a busted flush, robbed, congealed into fat. John Bull, swollen, an insipid deception, ruddy nosed and periwigged, port-swollen, neither soundly derived nor well-placed, a familiar, a cipher, dropped into place, an empty thing, a word, an echo of a forgotten substance. God Save a gutless word, recycled by lazy acceptance, cobbled by plentiful misuse, the robbed dust of English bones, sluiced for sly expedience. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/aug/27/the-government-called-the-exam-algorithm-robust-how-robust-was-that-claim