Mountebank Blues [reformed Tull]

          Monte,,,,, shit shit shit.

Mountebank Blues

Noisy bookshelves push patronage game.
Recycled numbers changing their name.
Pad in hand, the Blackbeard stands.
With great pretense.
Scaled metaphor, nonslip rungs to the promised land.

Bookshop proprietor, cool compendium
Labyrinth softener, sometime pond scum.
Blue sky this, value added gist that.
With quite small prints.
Bookish exterior grating over 'gnostic Rand.

Wouldn't show it.
Like a mountebank can.
Shouldn't crow it
With that mountebank span.
Couldn't know it.
Just a mountebank man.

Reduce stock, click, emptied bookshelves.
Adherents mocked into blaming themselves.
Takeout fantasia sing, on budget shoestring,
With measured waste,
Punched up vitae bag man in extended round.

Titled arrangements that jumble my wit
More topspin than I'd care to admit.
Hairbrained scheme, slim particle beam,
That distinctive taste,
Résumé grifter, three card Monte at Hare and Hound.... what the hell.

I wouldn't fake it,
Let the mountebank choose.
I shouldn't take it,
On the mountebank crews,
I couldn't shake it,
With the mountebank blues.



With the mountebank blues ♬ ♪








I can't get out!!

Sun-tanned Stranded Starfish in a Daze

While my employed life settled down to a daily grinding of  misallocated imponderables, I clung fast, I say. By totting and stacking long hoarded evacuation resources I decided to abandon ministerial sophistry and fling it astray if only in short term. Up the 'pool (!) it was to be as I pondered mizzen stays'ils set to the easterlies.

It was simply an indicator of the tightness of the bastille when I then must need endure the specter of pompous Learian rationale to arrange my earned furlough. Oh Mr. Lear, it is ever so. You haunt me, Edward. However, in a twist of the rational  in nigh a week's time I found myself performing a temporary elegy of sorts for the miscommunicatively [it is, I say, or should be...why are you smacking so loudly?] masked madness that descendeth back into its dark crevasse, nay 'pool in all consistency, awaiting some other traveler in some other sane struggle. And...

I'm going up the `pool from down the smoke below
to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candyfloss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be meeting
Mister Universe.

Why had I never realized I was caught on a train sans handle charging towards an ending of despair? But...

There'll be bucket, spades and bingo, cockles, mussels, rainy days,
seaweed and sand castles, icy waves.
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.

Edward Bear, it is you that I see. A mere mistaken consonant between me and a rudimentary pilgrimage to the land of my awakening that are the isles.

I was but a starfish in the shallows swishing back to the open endless sea.

Time will pass.