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It's not pinin'. It's passed on. It has ceased to be. Bereft of life, it rests in piece. It's a stiff. It's snuffed it. It's shuffled off this mortal coil, run up the curtain, and joined the bleedin' choir invisibule. This is an ex-parrot.
It's eight o' clock and time for the penguin on top of your television set to explode.
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Light a man a fire, and he will be warm while it burns.
Set a man on fire, and he will be warm for the rest of his life.
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