In all my pursuits of the finer pleasures in life, none has brought me more joy than the time-honoured compositions of the incomparable Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I must confess that there have been times in my life, such as when I was a poor chap growing up in Brighton, in which the mere sound of a Mozart tune has brought joy to my spirits and replenished my will to continue living.
Once, when I was a mere lad of twelve, and had nary a smoking jacket to my name, a Spanish wench who taught at the local orphanage tried to have me apprehended by the local bobbies, claiming I had attempted to assault her. Of course, those who know me well know that I shan't ever disrespect a lady, no matter how ill her reputation, but as a strapping boy wracked by the pangs of hunger only we Dickensian orphans shall ever know, I was in no position to defend myself upon the witness stand. However, my dear friend Bizarro Hango Fett visited me in my cell in the attempt to increase my morale, and as he entered the stockade was humming to himself a snippet of "The Magic Flute."
My friends, I immediately was reminded that life did indeed have meaning. I argued my case in court against that saucy strumpet and had her expelled from the country. And whenever I feel such low feelings coming upon me, I simply hum the same selection of "The Magic Flute" to myself, and it as the finest opiate of the Orient.
I think it not too forward to presume that, as intelligent fellows of class and distinction, you are all fellow admirers of Mozart's incomparable talents and we no doubt have much to discuss in the intricacies of his ouvre.
Ah, Mozart
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