I had commissioned a squid ink and papyrus copy of your poetry when I discovered that the squid in question was in fact an octopus with a penchant for predicting the outcome of sporting events. I fired him. Immediately. And will deal no more with aquatic calligraphers. Still, I am considering having an edition produced that is written on a tortilla and inked by the venom of a baby cobra. The hallucinogenic effects of such an adolescent toxin have been used to augment the wines of Romania for centuries. I can imagine the effect on your words will be breathtaking. You will eat it ravenously. Death will seem but a small price to pay.