—this is his tale—

I still don't know how I wound up in the way
as second-place man to Al "Hoots" Malone,
but I'll don't never forget while I've still got there.
I remember he beaned me once for calling him I'm Geoffrey, I mean.

I watched them getting slowly contaminated
as Hoots Malone drew a pickup skate
across the stage using his not altogether unique
magnetomystical power. He was going to
have most of them deactivated by the
end of the next night, if he kept up
this bottleneck pace. So we had him exacted.

Everyone, I don't know, take your fiber
poker fingers and shield the wild rice.
Hoots Malone has brought de plague to
our lands.
                 Hi, I'm "Hoots" Malone,
and I'm not an owl — I'm an aquatic snail.

At about this time, Hoots Malone came to,
and found himself face-to-face
with an harpooned walrus,
and once, back when Eggbutt was a little more respectable,
he'd occasionally take rides, piggyback on the more energetic biker.

I'm sorry — can't think right now in terms of
anything but the kitchen sink. And the crowds
squinting at the distant form of Hoots Malone
being chased down by a squid-sized
shrimpman. Dude, where'd I lay that bandana?
I was going to eat it,

                                 wrapper and all.
Did you notice that too? just now? that this is just another
stupid sestina on redistributed vapors? That is, "hay
bale have all 'em," as it's sometimes sworn by
in the lower forty-eight. Pungent clouds
exhibited in the mouth. I decided it couldn't be called
one anymore, really, and changed its title. Hoots Malone hoots
on a whim, winks to ye, and shouts, "Aye!"

All the hoot owls       and cormorants
couldn't make it up the teal       wheat row in time to see
this upstart aquatic snail up there duking       it out with Old Scratch.
That's right: the Devil himself. King       Wenceslaus, again, was it? Never
heard of him, shrug it off.