The bear is in his cave. The bees are gathering honey. Have you brought the basket of French doormen? Have you garaged into the ferns without clinging uselessly?
There is no other way in. The way out passed away yesterday. There was a plastic leg there where Junior’s accountant had been bumped by a car.
I must assert that no graves have been disinterred for our throated glee. If I am conversing with a disheveled bush, it is because the salesman traveling perishable in my deeper emotions is offering squid and gin and the odor of Ovaltine. He is expecting the nomination.
It’s no use throwing butter from the sidecar. The parade attendants are jaded and the national anthem of party crevices now sounds like Christmas ornaments singing about tooth decay.
Then finally there was the dark party. Table for two and a formal contract? I could have brought you a selection of openings for your closure. I could have vespered. I could have helped you discourage faulty puritans. I could have lathered up the visitation couch. I could have divulged a richer life. You were there and you knew I was coming.
Do tell us about it when you happen.