Oh, those screams; those hideous screams!
I imagined and . . . it's true:
How his face will haunt my dreams!

What a sight! It makes me sick.
Seems I am to blame somehow.
~Garcon~, fetch a brandy quick . . .
There! I'm feeling better now.
Let's collaborate, we two,
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, what ripping stuff we'll do,
Sitting on the Boulevard!




It is strange how one works easily at times. I wrote this so quickly
that I might almost say I had reached the end before I had come
to the beginning. In such a mood I wonder why everybody
does not write poetry. Get a Roget's ~Thesaurus~, a rhyming dictionary:
sit before your typewriter with a strong glass of coffee at your elbow,
and just click the stuff off.




Facility