As Usual, I do everything bassackwards.

25 Sept, 2008, round early morn

ou

vingt-sank presque la journeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

“Mistah Curtz, he dead”

The First Stanza

“We are the red men

caught by the Jazz Police”

Said the joker to the fief.

Stanza le seconde

I am no poet

Or Prophet

But I’ve seen

Dem Bones Dem Bones

Dem Dry Dry Bones.

But they wouldn’t talk to me.

Slightly ornery

But you wouldn’t notice

On his crusty face

He is the Buddha

DAY-OLD

Stale-Oh

He is my fathah

I wouldn’t trade him

in-oh

No sirree boyo

(Addendum:

Cos I’m his Kardoula

Un homage A

Kerouac-oh

Mon Hero

STICK That in yer Broadway

Show-ow-ow

Constanza the Third Or Can’t Stand Ya

Dare I eat a peachum

One rotten apple don’t roon the bunch-oh

Don’t rock the toy-boat

Boyo

or vote-ho

Don’t blame me

It’s my illness

They call it encephalitis

But what are MD’S

But glorified mechanics

with Degreeeeeeeees

(Creshendoh)

Six degrees of Kevin Bacon

Don’t eat Bacon

Or Byron,

Tastes too much like the flesh of

men or

boyos

or orchids

according to  Chandler or D Hammett-oh

Or Hamlet

Or Evi

Or EVIEEEEEE

Either suits me.

Teliea kai pavla.

or Pavlov