"And that, Tristan, laddie, is why you ain't a songwriter – four words, four syllables too many, sometimes you gotta scumble a bit, you shoulda stopped with 'stuck in the middle with you' which is a nice line, it's gonna be a hit one of these days," said Issy, "and if I ever use it, I'll pay you a royalty," and Lionel added: "you should've become an accountant, Issy," but his friend waved the insult away, saying: "my momma wanted to be able to introduce me to her friends as 'my son the Doctor,' but I couldn't stand the idea of being surrounded by sick people, people with diseases, or the dying, or even already dead; I didn't want to become intimately acquainted with bed-sores or bezoars, cachexia or proctopexia, fibroids or hemorrhoids, to be forever poking around in the body's orifices and sticking my nose in where it definitely didn't want to go; do you get that Tristan?" and, thus unexpectedly addressed, the youngest occupant of the table blushed and said: "to be honest, Issy, I think there's a paralogism in there somewhere, but I'm damned if I can work out just where it is!" and Lionel laughed, and shouted: "fetch some nurses, we've got to operate immediately, or he's a goner!" and Issy cried out: "who you callin' a gonef? you can't say I'm not honest, just because I didn't have a chance to steal one of your songs!" and turning to Tzara, said triumphantly: "now that, my boy, would be a paralogism!"