Bovine-like, we shall meet our deaths (Such is the scythe the reaper wields) No matter that the final breaths
One quickly learns to fall and roll, (The pratfall is his stock in trade) But hard surfaces take their toll,
Well, the maps were quite ghastly, you know; We’d assumed the Frogs would have a pleasure cruise, All baguettes and brioche, up the straits.
They fall upon us over the spillways of time, Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
We’d make the journey, all but Hannibal-esque in nature, Either on foot (even on the most dogged of the dog days When the antidiluvian tar on our side street would bubble up,
See that under the cow? That holds the stuff of life, so pick it up and drink, don’t just kick it.
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter, Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub, A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae, Of leopard-print and Linkedin pages,