It smells like someone just did a big load of laundry. Down at the stockyards, next to the pulp plant. Like Yogi Berra’s been eating beans. Or potatoes from PEI.
But I’ve been fooled before. Once when the fruit man had his finger on the scale. Twice when the stories of the supreme being didn’t add up. Thrice under the dismal flag of patriotism.
And the time came to unearth my mother’s breasts, and to play ball like my father before me. Hollow Wood be thy name.
Let’s party like there were no tomorrow. Or wen’t there? Generations of philosophers can’t but disagree. They, the disagreeable generations, caught one of the chambermaids tapping into a keg of rum in the cellar. They salted her behind. They smoked her underwear. And in the end, they offered her another cigar.