Tuesday, November 22, 2011


I woke up with an armadillo
Was snoring soundly in my bed;
Then I recalled, beneath my pillow,
My .45 and shot it dead.
This roused the peasants in the village
Where I’d been helping with their tillage.
They, seizing me, brought me to court
And asked me just what kind of sport
Would do a thing like that. I answered
And what would you do if you knew?
They scratched their heads. They had no clue.
I said because their heads were cancered,
They thought that words should make some sense.
Now go set up the circus tents.

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