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After feasting on little Oliver's body, the shark's eyes turned upward at the creepy orchestra that was stalking it and asked in a large little voice, "Please, sah? I would surely enjoy some moh Olivah..."
The orchestra that stalks sharks was flabbagerbast... flabbergasted at the big little shark's request. "No! Tis not possible! You wan' moh? Nobody gets moh, tis the Shark Law of 1847!"
The shark was caught off guard by the reference, and, being an shark, decided it best to abstain from a lengthy discourse regarding the relative merits of the British shark law. Oh, how the shark suffered. He could only imagine the poetry of sensation he might chance upon should perhaps some more Oliver come into his possession. Oh how the shark dreamed of the day of getting moh Oliver, and being able to eat as much Oliver as it's large little frame could withhold.