Potting Sheds and Tiring-Houses

Ned Buntline-in the West-took a bullet to the head
using his own hand, of course.
Czar Pyotr grew so awfully tall
that he nearly fell off his bronze horse.

Mon frere! Adieu! she cried (the little fool!)
as she dropped herself into the wide murky pool.
Ah! but the water bubbled up and then
my gassy girl rose to the surface again!

A potting shed and a tiring-house:
one in th' heather, the other in th' dark,
admitting some yet refusing all.
For a fee she will make you the Tears of the Moon.

The enrob'd pleurant in the tower of Chartes
must move it aloft with each passing fart.
If I've said it before I'll say it to thee:
Sie ist la belle dame sans merci.

Oh! perhaps I should right now be abed,
The cocaine absinthe has left you quite dead.
Ah! you are alive! but I've not more to say
so, sirrah, I shall be on my way.


DB/5.17.04,2014