ARMS MAKE THE MAN
Right. And your uncle was Johnny Weismuller.
I saw him once, he pulled a canker sore with a
pair of needle-nose pliers. Must have hurt like
hell, but just for a moment. Everyone else was
wincing for him. 'He sure could play Tarzan
well,' someone muttered. Another guy piped
up, 'for what's it's worth, I was his stand-in.'
There are a few appointment books on the mantle.
The scheduling session the studio planned isn't
going that well : only two people have showed
so far, and there were supposed to be twelve.
To make a quorum. What a dumb idea.
'If there aren't enough here, this meeting's not
valid.' Doesn't it seem as if there's always one of
those people in every crowd : the rules proclaimer,
the next know-it-all, the one who proclaims it's
all for real and never notices it's all for farce.
Valid? He actually uttered the word 'valid'?
What dark matter sweeps down on us now?
And what dark matter can this really be? My
mystery is taken, and arms make the man,
(what the man will be).