Feast of O’s

Hello again Pol,

Glad to know that you’re fine and not wasting your time one bit!

Thanks for those deep sounds. They certainly are hypnotic. I keep levitating. I’m only half awake most of the time, but this is another level! I got into a dreamy state and started imagining a song about being woken up at night by a gang of screaming degenerates. The ‘o’s in the text translate their vulgar cries and exclamations (“O! O!”) into a story which has an ‘o’ at the end of every line. At the end the narrator decides to kill them.

Right, I need some fresh air. A walk in the country!

All the best,

Paul


Feast of O’s

Woken by the bawdy bellows

of some loud and noisome fellows,

creeping to my bed in thick billows,

seeping through my pile of pillows.

Bigots belching something callow,

bawdy bellows, noisome fellows,

their angry argot and surly lingo.

I bury my face as my forehead furrows.

I was mellow.

I watch the machos and the bozos

rev a turbo, sport a logo.

Land is fallow, harvests narrow,

bleak predictions for tomorrow.

The bawdy bellows of noisome fellows

underneath my darkened window,

a feast of O’s so hard to swallow

just as I was getting mellow.

I was mellow.

Now I’m growing gently gung-ho,

it’s time to leave my crumpled pillow.

Greasing up some weighty ammo

is a pleasure I won’t forego.

Tucked behind a well-trimmed hedgerow,

I’ll be here until the cockcrow

for to slay these noisome fellows

with a blow from my trusty crossbow.

Then hop home through field and meadow

like a jaunty morning sparrow.

I believe it’s hard to know

quite when the corpses go dark yellow.

I was mellow.

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