WITH PING THE ARSENAL
Bring me home once more and I don't care
what else happens. You can tuckahoe your
own grand canyon ways - weaving the most
obstreperous things of a thin, weak lace. Look
at that lady over there : she thinks she's cagey,
but I know her other name. The high-fashion
parson she thinks she's dating - 'courting', my
grandmother used to say - to him it's all just
another illusion; he's got no arsenal, he's a Ming
the Merciless, a regular killer-dude. Everywhere
one looks now are funny names - the butcher-shop
calls itself 'a cut above'; the cafe owner reads the
rabble-power to name a new brew. 'Augey-Doggy'
is what they get. A real high-power eye-opening brew.
-
You know me and I know you. The funny trellis-man,
my sister calls him Ping. George Pingry is the full name,
and he owns 71 guns. I call him Ping the Arsenal, for real.
(Now we're sitting down to dinner, and I'm nervous as Hell).
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