What did Don Juan want with a hot tub careening into the Western Wind like a borrowed car?

Had everything that could have been done been done? Had the final oarsman been made to make music with a butter churn?

Had our calendars been marked for when Leo would burn bright red among the constellations like a smattering of antihistamines

Or had he only been told that the only cure for the gonorrhea he’d acquired from the airline stewardess was to wear her thin wooden bra and to swing his arms about maliciously at any flying thing?

As he climbed the stairs he could feel everybody looking at him, and he began to wonder whether this was because he was wearing so many large gold medallions and thought that perhaps his lemur-fur coat had been unreasonably priced.

Drunken women kept twisting his feet towards the North Star

And sleeping there, knocked out completely unconscious, were a group of virgins who’d been ripped off buying tickets for a circus where the audience was offered the chance to put their heads into the lion’s mouth/whose tent collapsed on them once they’d entered/that didn’t exist.

At last he found the lug nut that had disappeared following a long series of muggings, singing with the hoboes in a cattle car.

He laughed to himself looking over the speech his lug nut had prepared for him. The Ganges

Was slowly winding down Loisaida Avenue, and like a giant donut

A tax collector in a stolen tow truck came tumbling out of the mountains to foreclose

On his own wooden leg. He made some joke about how A Streetcar Named Desire was written about him,

And suddenly it got a lot colder. The patron saint of the U.S. Post Office whose spangled white leather gloves made her look like a cheap Elvis impersonator

Lumbered over to read to the members of the British press assembled there, more out of love than admiration, a note she’d tucked into her breast pocket.

It looked as though the lug nut was sitting with a very large pout on its face, And our hero threw a bucket of water on it and on the Prime Minister.

All droll Danes should stay in their closets along with their grandfathers and rock collections

And this law should be posted and repeated and recopied and displayed in every parking lot.

I’m sorry that I’ve gotten so far off the track of our heroes, who certainly have been patient, cutting up lemons for our drinks with their rapiers,

Watching the farmers collect their wheat and not saying a word since last Christmas.