Fragments 1
The Lone Ranger approached the low makeshift stage of the automobile
dealership as his audience waited for him to begin to speak---
Uncle Fud and Uncle Dud lolled together in the mud---
Stay far away from Danbury, Connecticut---
Out of control on a downward grassy slope---face first onto a hard concrete driveway---
Cow bells on the mountain---
The fresh eastern hilly countryside of Quebec----
Not a cento---
Run the bases, fill the vases full of flowers---
Slug a lug a ding dong, a pocket full of high---
Pioneers and Sons of the Pioneers---
Sons of the desert---
Aunt Louise and Sister Smith polished off a potent fifth---
The farmer lost his right arm at the elbow to an enraged boar---
Green can be an odious color---
All babies cry in the same language---
Near Venice, Florida mostly black prehistoric sharks’ teeth of various shapes and
sizes wash up toward the beach in the relentlessly frothy surf---
The Alamo, from the vantage point of this height, looks quite small indeed—
Run The Bases
Run the bases.
Fill the vases.
Full of flowers.
Watch the hours.
Tic away.
Say heh heh.
Note the surplus.
Turning purple.
And the gurgle.
Of the water.
Nothing soft.
Comes this way.
Say heh.
Single mothers.
W/ their children.
Want to cross here.
Very grimly.
They advance now.
Granite faces.
Of the players.
Fill the bases.
And the mayors.
Cheat and steal.
Never miss.
A single meal.
(The Texas “swing” song.
Piano and violin.
At the surprising end.
Of “Places In The Heart”.)
Mind your daddy.
And your mama.
Don’t abuse them.
Or confuse them.
Or misuse them.
Give them honor.
And amuse them.
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