“Poland? Poland? Isn't it terribly cold there? ” she asked, and then sighed with relief. So many countries have emerged lately that it is safest to talk about the weather.

"Madame," I want to answer, "the poets of my people write everything in gloves." I don’t mean never to take them off; elxs do, in fact, if the moon is hot enough. In the verses composed of hoarse cries, as only these can drown out the constant roar of storms, they glorify the simple life of our walrus shepherds. Our Classicists engrave their odas with caramels of ink on trampled snow mounds. The rest, xs nosxs Decadentes, mourn their fate with snowflakes instead of tears. Anyone wishing to drown should have an ax on hand to cut the ice. Oh Madame, dear Madame ”

That’s what I meant. But I forgot the word walrus in French. And I’m not sure about caramel and ax.

“Poland? Poland? Isn't there a terrible cold there? ”

"Not at all," I replied coldly.