Bobby and I, we were hitting the sticks. We were trapping johns like it was Sunday. This is our gimmick, Bobby says to ya. Let’s go way-ho the what’s know. Now, in the glist of all this, a small gang of charlamores huddled in the briar, down by Clutie’s way. I hear Clutie holler, hoot-hoot horay.
“A peace for you and a fire for me.”
And the onlookers were naught. But then, just there, I spotted a beige-headed girl, knee deep in philanthropy, and she was intrigued by the moor.
“I say,” says she, “But aren’t you the proprietor of this ensemble?”
Ole Cloot was demonstricied. Touched by the sweet reprise. “Sew up your ears, little dear. There’s more of a war to be fought here. I’ve got a pocketful of empty. But you can always park your sphere in the rear.”
Bobby and I, we were coursing comestibles, down by Clutie’s way. And every day and every day. Low and bestowed comes hither a wandering sag. So says the sag, “Means me to look for treasure. Is this the rainbow’s end?”
So says I to the sag, “What? No. The rainbow points to another way. Here’s only where the sky begins.”
Bobby was sore and indigenous. “Say it isn’t so. That these poor feet have walked for miles and gone nowhere. Say it isn’t so, Brethren Bear, that all I say and do is for null. And a dull null, too. Have you not seen me in past times six weeks writing dissertation upon discourse about the boundless ladder to infinity? I say no. We are God’s creatures all, six feet or small. There is a light out yonder. Here’s where we begin to find her.”
Clutie and I, we were counting brass. Seventy-five hundred or so more is what we need for the ship ashore. Clunk, clunk, clack. Cloot shoots three and gets a score. “My homerun for you,” he says. “We’ll have you in Nazaruth none too soon.”
Meanwhile, back at the Sickly Sweet, Loe was catching an earful.
“I’ve been reading a lot about this so called wonder thing you’ve been yipping around town about. Seems to me that the matter is solved. And that assortation you’ve been marbleing about with. I just don’t like the looks of it. Not one crumble. Least of all to say that the Rabble are up in armour. Do you understand how important I am? They’ll be none more of this. AND NONE MORE OF THIS! I will not fall for your ignorant foibles. Off to bed with you. And dream about the real. Do YoU uNdErStAnD?”
Go, Loe, go, and catch onto a falling star. Jim Morrison did not die. He just found the right door.
