To 
poem, "The Hoosgow Wagon Is Here, Herb I"
Back to Clapping Jelly Page Back to Don Books PageThe Ex-Nightwatchman
He's gallant, he's smart, the truth is
Stutgart isn't in Denmark, Italy.
And Munich isn't in Ishtar,
Batman or the Gas Station Attendant.
Which isn't a movie shown
whenever it rains it falls, it's raining here,
gusts of wind fantasize they
can hold me Becks, which is the best beer.
On the dock, the one-armed attendant,
heavy as he is, gets up enough dirt
and mayonnaise to do in Dante
or that gloomy stump Lord Byron.
In the ergo zen night, the comedian --
night in the "go out into the" sense --
turns right at Tragedy, left at Death
and lies - well, not lies - melts.
Man, a cheese snowcone substitute would hit
the dais right now, grumbling like a Hertz Float
donned as the shittern dials 9-1-2
and pants his final words: "the phone works"
Nanny Earl, with Democrats surrounding the house,
breathes in and mutters the sins
of a guy named Kloster who armed the Tibetans
and sprayed wine all over Flemish paintings.
With no friends and no vegetables
and only the lust that dwells in a behemoth,
singing "Free your dick and the Laplanders
will follow!" right into the lamp chain glut!
Can someone not from Frostbite Falls sit zen
here in the diesel hubcap state,
die an amusing death and
wear a cat-licked, mangled hat?
How many hats did you see in Jonestown, Guyana?
How many hats did macho Thomas Mann wear?
who was so macho he had trouble choreographing
ten men swearing that Teheran can*.
*find love and sexual fulfillment