MY SEASON IS AT THE
END OF THE WORLD
Darling darn your socks. I mean, like, sew
them, mend the toe then. Darling, darn
your socks. I tripped over them this
morning, I'm testing all the toast that's
ever been made : rye, pumpernickel, and
wheat. The white bread, I don't care about;
we're feeding that to the ducks and geese.
Your feelings about the Fourth of July
are pretty boring to me. So, just let's get
it all a move on, before you have that
infernal kid you've been carrying around
now for nine full months. Oh, baby, let
it go. The midwife is in the parlor, waiting.
She says she also does a lot of other things,
but darning socks is not among them. Isn't
all this living for the beautifully damned
alone such a show as good as can be? Whew,
that was a tongue twister which took me
by surprise. I alone am left to tell; my
season is at the end of the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment