Rum Cake

Whereas, in the past, I have carved no ruts of habit concerning the consumption of carbohydrates in the cowpath of my ante meridiem stupor, nor has there snuck past my careful lips, my final guards against impropriety and future regret, any oath against such sugary comestibles as might make my mornings masticable, the last of my faculties to arrive in the morning and the first to leave at night being, by force of tradition alone, discrimination, if the cafe upstairs should deny me the same class of cake, soaked, it seems, after baking rather than before, so as not to denature the nectar that is its namesake, that I had yesterday and today, I fear that the demons that beset habitual people may, by fully extending their crimson arms, reach me with the longest points of their tridents so that I would say, “Damn.”