They ask me
"Anon, how is the figgie's chest?"
I say
"Flatter!"
One week and one day latter they ask me
"Anon, how is the figgie's chest?"
I say
"Flatter!"
Again, one week and one day latter, they ask me
"Anon, how is the figgie's chest? We can go no flatter"
I gaze into his soul, knowing he has not yet reached the pinnacle of his craft
"Flatter."
I say once more. They denounce me. Call me a madman. They say
"It can be made no flatter!"
I heed not their words, and simply utter
"Flatter."
Once more. After another week and a day, they return. Arms trembling, gazes held low, and ask
"Anon, how is the figgie's chest?"
I take a moment to study it. The tasteful flatness of it. I run my finger across it once, twice, testing for any hint of undulation. They tremble before me, awaiting my response. I say nothing, and simply reach for an empty jar and place the proffered figgie inside. A palpable relief fills the room, but it is short lived as I once again look up away from my new figgie.
"Flatter."