Once upon a time in a land far far away lived a frog that was gay and on one summer’s day —
Oh forget it, rhyming is for the wolves — and for that matter Fred Flintstone’s philosophical theory regarding possible cohabitation with the proverbial destitute and amorous trumpet is highly irrational!!
Ok, we’ll start again — this is the legend of the scarlet wolfe — as seen through the eyes of the fictional genius Rumplestiltskin, or was it Bambi la Bamba? I will leave that choice to the indiscretion of the imagination of my fictional fans. In any one case my only crime is in loving myself too much, which despite all optimism is hardly a bowl of sugar cakes. (All my best material is pirated.)
It is not that I am not what you see, only that I am in a ding-dong am sich search of any present which however more modern than the Arthur who cannot be the master of that poor Lucky, soul of direction and fount of wisdom so much better than the small pout that he gets.
Is it tomorrow yet? –If so, will you please alert the scarlet wolfe of the approaching hunters voyaging through a change in the wind of misfortune, which while blowing nobody any damn good down the corridors of power, did, however blow both that dizzy girl and her little dog to Oz and back in a single day without turning them upside down or inside out, which is not such bad work by any magical standards.
If it be yesterday, wilt thou yet mind then that running through of the central park by those scarlet strumpets whose alliteration bears with them tales of slippers both glass and brass collapsing like a packet of nine-pins in a cymballic crash of soi-dissonant chords, the threnodies of which themselves twine throughout every old tale in wee geordian knots of pearlized complexity and can only be found resting at the fifth fathom of the deep and briny blue, a place where wolves are not often found, nor tornadoes of whatever size and velocity.
Even Magnum could not solve this one, despite the help of all the champagne charlies, chan or other wise followers of Fu Manchu or any of the other tight-belted and sticky-fingered chandlers feeling their drunken way around the foggy bay.
Whoops, I’m rhyming again… and innocence is no excuse in the eyes of the law, which allows little latitude above ninety, as our wolfe found outside on the plains of Issac’s father where there were few mounted or calm habitents after he snuck up on them from behind and fired grape-shot into the back vineyards of Quebec. Je me souviens …and so does my frog pal joey who got an offer he couldn’t refuse on the docks down under, to either work with Fred and the trumpet, or get gang-banged by Hawaiian fish. This is where I came in, and if you don’t think I’m going to use this excuse to get out, you’re crazier than I am.