What's for lunch? asked Pliny the Elder, looking up from whatever it was he was writing.
Nostradamus and I had bean soup. There's plenty left, would you like some?
Bean soup! Is this it? I thought you were starting an aquarium, he sniffed, staring hard at the plastic container half filled with what admittedly looked like little white and brown stones and some very murky water.
No thanks, he said firmly. I am with Pythagoras on the subject of ingesting beans. They dull the senses and induce dreams. Furthermore they contain the souls of the dead.
Pliny, I said, don't give me a hard time. I've had a difficult morning.
Oh, he said, why is that?
I'm trying to write a poem that rhymes in both French and English. At the same time I'm trying to figure out why this soup looks like the bottom of a river. Does that sound like a difficult morning?
Yes, said Pliny, my apologies. What shall I have then?
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