It's All Is Hollow eve, and masks are coming off all around,
partytime personas are dropping to the floor, autumn leaves luff, waft,
shed by dying elm trees, sheer wind scourging through
the 'bare ruined choir,' as the bad priests with bad breath call them
in their shame and misery. And in charge of transubstantiation, too.
"Blondie!" men cry, "Why have you forsaken we?"
Civil War Cemetery, noose around the neck, shaky chair, the Ugly Man
Nietzsche feared, N. wearing his Z. tee, like a Che poser,
fire in his palm, crying out, "Blondie!"
Will squinty Goodness riding off, who put Ugly on the chair,
turn around in time to save him, shoot the rope Ugly hung himself with,
give 'Satan' one last chance to shape-shift, or reform?
Or will he elope alone with the gold dust sacks?
Skedaddle to Seattle with a pure blonde on his saddle?
Ride off into the sunset of civilization to Ennio Morricone tracks?
And you can hear the tolling tintinnabulation of heart-wrung hands
as the dramatic tension of evolution plays out on Dylan's futile horn.
Will you be ready at the door when the monkey's paw we came from,
like creatures from the blackest lagoon,
rings the doorbell for further validation of eternal recurrence?
It's trick or treat.
Or dangling feet.
Take off your sheet.
Have a sweet.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
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