Today we are traveling back to our roots, in the body of a doubly-rat-tailed infant, who desires for fleas to guzzle his plague. Beloved Vice-President, how I have missed the bouncy touch of your brain against mine.ON AN OLD HORN
The bird kept saying that birds had once been men,
Or were to be, animals with men's eyes,
Men fat as feathers, misers counting breaths,
Women of a melancholy one could sing.
Then the bird from his ruddy belly blew
A trumpet round the trees. Could one say that it was
A baby with the tail of a rat?
Were violet, yellow, purple, pink. The grass
of the iris bore white blooms. The bird then boomed.
Could one say that he sang the colors in the stones,
False as the mind, instead of the fragrance, warm
In the little of his voice, or the like,
Or less, he found a man, or more, against
Calamity, proclaimed himself, was proclaimed.
If the stars that move together as one, disband,
Flying like insects of fire in a cavern of night,
Pipperoo, pippera, pipperum...The rest is rot.