Bizarre and perilous seems my routine
today, and I don’t understand the cause
of this foreboding mood. It cannot mean
catastrophe my dog has tender paws,
abraded brow and irritated skin –
the signs are omenless as my garage.
I harbor no significance within;
my apprehension radiates mirage.
I read today of God’s revenge on Saul.
The text requested I believe that seven
sons must hang for him. I find it all
preposterous, to think so ill of heaven:
Another wisdom bound to disappoint.
I think I’ll miss my train and smoke a joint.
Cutterpub 