Why the Fiddler Fixed the Roof
Babs the Woodpigeon gave issue in the silver birch by the back window as we questioned solipsism over sticky buns . Les Bleu Dragoons, Pipe & Fyffe dervishers, Slasher & Tom-Tom Tittle-Tattle, entertain us as the pallid seraph of Dumfries drops in and from time to time utters out of the blue– but it is February after all, winter’s dogend spells an ill wind crisp blows in as horny handed thugs on drugs, sporting primrose neckties, shiny yellow wellies, hard-nut-to-crack walnut titfers, suspended on high rise hopes, twitching in direct sunlight through X-Ray Specs collude.
See the world through blue crystal galoshes breaking in wind spirits to get up & gallop thru upstairs vacant chambers, confidential papers scatter, still a radio that plays non-stop, filling up swallow moods, trying to keep cool & tarry on, raving on like Long John Donne, aloof in trailblazer and spats, ready crispy salty dogman, star of screech…
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