Me and my Bobby McGee
If the name had been Teddy Gowers
Would it have been us and ours.
All this convenience would also spoil love
If love weren’t such an easy thing
Good enough for whatever

A sour jibe at crows mayhaps
The danger grows perhaps
Otherwise why these ominous signs
In the dead hours
As a brooding still murder
On a wire out in the winter night

But buzzing gay in my animal planet
Are mosquitoes as me they devour
And their immense grace would make me consider them my family etc
Since they let me dwell on their life’s work while I’m dying
If they weren’t so bloody irritating

Cigarette calls from the depth of the soul
I’m not that well kept and I wonder
What if I were to tear all asunder
And call myself sikander
Hephaestion’s butt whose fury fed

Oh absurdity I’m back, for you. Now take my hand and in the dark hold my fingers over the fire, ask ‘sweet or sour’. Eat your pills of madness with me for company at an incomplete dinner, the key to the pantry left behind. Order a feast of the choicest meats, the Tasmanian devil and the mountain porcupine. Gather orange pips for a game after, lock the babe in the shed. Light a queer candle, undress the pride of lions in their nightsuits. Caramel stuck to their manes, you call their names. The cats shrink meowling/barking, you clean their mess. The hero comes hearken, you tell me. I wilt in the shame, from the interloper I haide the same. Gothic walls crumble, in a heap of dust of Capuchin skulls. Where did you pick up such tales, slap. Building in distance, water, well. Predestination is in the final analysis the strongest force that persists.

Caresses wake me, it’s a lion.

Scratches, falling on the thorns, grief stricken relief for sore eyes in search of grief stricken relief etc.

Exeunt dramatis personae.

In the evening show, honey on clowns’ hair. The aforesaid pride and the caramel absconding, over. In the name of the father, we sit down to prayer. Slap, it’s standing imbibed and standing delivered. Psalms bring the chick into the toilet where she was found suddenly materialized out of thin air. It being the highest habitable pass on the Everest strengthens the claim. The police arrive. Whose chick. Whose chick. Nothing happens for sometime. The people make no bones about their disregard. Open rebellion. Much death and decrying. Thousands behind bars. Eras rush by. Now we revisit the virgin tale.

Grim Russian winter. Intermittent coughing, many with the gout. The old style but, slightly deviating. Here too animals, but tame. Definitely an improvement. Now the harvest and rosy cheeks, immaculately dressed. In the corner of the woods but before the dame in distress could land in anything worth rescuing from, a tender flower fell, on which fell the king upon whom fell the courtiers to be followed by the gentry, the serfs, the clergy, the jewry, the laity etc the list goes on. But the cast can’t. Jerk of head in time.

Unavoidable circumstances and the hurricanes and cyclones and tsunamis, the egos tempers and tantrums, the chains of supply lines of communication the demand curve, rising prices mounting debts sundry expenses. Into the grim times is born the saviour. But the show must go on.

Who should say this but Hugh Hefner, from the audience.

So exit saviour. But not for much longer.

Bush says that from another corner.

Philosophers ponder the question of the thread and whence it was broken. ‘Funny it never struck none to ask me’ was their only clue. An out of the blue answer was expected. Nothing struck but when stones were, fire. Here, the turning point.

Now the beasts keep safe distance and have their dinner by themselves. The butler is particularly fond of sleeping in the kitchen and the lock is on the inside, if he could have it but legend is that he has, with attendant mystery. Much scientific uproar in the vicinity. Textual factual prima facie normative theoretical a priori a posteriori investigations credit a shrewd discretion for this rare feat. Celebration dinner is served naked in joy wherewith metaphorically the wise butler hints that he is quite open and in fact when the spare ribs go missing it’s found that the pigs were fucking in the kitchen thus disproving the entire conjecture of the lock on the inside. The butler stripped forthwith and tried. Death in a secret dungeon. Thus concludes the butler’s tale.

Last words, ‘didn’t know it would go sour’ (reported tongue in cheek).

Tangential humour raises suspicion and fifteen years later, when facing the firing squad the king would remember the butler he had damned in that very nightgown who doubled up as his chef because he was saving up for a long holiday.
Here too night overtakes the traveler.