Drum tap on your wedgie crinkled shorts. Where do the butterflies go when you are not worried? Did the trumpet blare its gooey sarcastic notes for the numbing few? How many did you have to thank?
And when the giraffe is knighted in the sea of doubt, who plays basketball with the chimpanzee? I know itís not the lion or the bear. Could it be the ball boy or the marketing guy from down the hall? He likes to bellow Bon Jovie tunes in his sleep over his electronic typewriter on crutches and his beautiful folding credenza named Pete. Pete also serves as a baton for the wandering circus performers in Tampa and Tulsa and sometimes Vancouver.
Where did you mother put your herring? Is it dry or still moist enough to use as a towelette? I looked in the bathroom for your plays about God and the saint Bernard down the hall. I think the dog ate your manuscript. But thatís ok because I can play the tuba.