Not half an hour had passed after posting the last entry when I received an email from the formidable Cuchulainn, who is apparently listening to all my thoughts with a primitive ham radio.
Loneliness in Jersey City
The deer and the dachshund are one.
Well, the gods grow out of the weather.
The people grow out of the weather;
The gods grow out of the people.
Encore, encore, encore les dieux...
The distance between the dark steeple
And cobble ten thousand and three
Is more than a seven-foot inchworm
Could measure by moonlight in June.
Kiss, cats: for the deer and the dachshund
Are one. My window is twenty-nine three
And plenty of window for me.
The steeples are empty and so are the people,
There's nothing whatever to see
Except Polacks that pass in their motors
And play concertinas all night.
They think that things are all right,
Since the deer and the dachshund are one.
First of all, what gave it away, Cuchu? Was it the cats sucking face in the bottom corner, or the hideous fused hell-harbinger in the upper right? Either way, congratulations--you are the total dominating winner! And second of all, is that true about Polacks? If so, I would like to meet a few of them.