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I'm a miniscule brewing device,
Low in stature and portly.
At this place is my carrying appendage,
At this place is my liquid delivery system.
When my contents vaporise, then I utter aloud,
Tilt me six degrees, decant my retained capacity.
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What's easier to believe: that a guy was born without sex in the manner of several Greek demigods and grew up to be able to transmute liquids and alter his body density yet couldn't escape government execution, or that three freemasons in a vehicle made with aluminum foil in an era before digital technology escaped our atmosphere, landing on the moon, broadcasted from there, and then flew back without burning up?
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