There should be a poem. Instead, there
is a series of sketches with no circumstance.
As tasteless and frightful as the blank page
before it, the classic sword fight continues in
the back. (Victorious will win the princess again).
I walk out into the streets for another
cigarette, (watch this):

Hitler! "No!"
Les français! "Non!"
Rainbows! "Yes!"
(As in fags)..."No!"

Common. Quite common. That is me, running
gadabout thinking I'm just about as campy as
one can get without actually being able to fall
in love with a man. And no, that is not my
ass. It is a pack of cigarettes, (remember I
told you about the cigarettes?) so stop searching,
it isn't there. God kept it in the National
Heaven Museum under glass and a fig leaf.
(Even further proof, I would say. Miaow).

Major tense shift.

I've stood across a thousand times, and sat
across at other times. I wasn't famished or
fatigued really; more of a boredom (another
form of weakness). The other side finished
their wall before mine. See, they had
teamwork, and the right price for secrets.
So I was left with a half-assed statue of
Oliver Nelson, which was the shit, because
he knew there was no reason to get into things.