Well, the men who built my house are DEAD now; ergo what? The men who built my house also drank whiskey that had been filtered through hobo’s socks, and they had furtive shameful sex with pox-scarred doxies behind the tavern - a sin they could never quite wash away no matter how many times they went to church. You could see the steeple from the alley, after all. One night when the moon was bright, the clouds seemed to snag on the steeple, rip open and spill out a thousand stars. And there he was with his back on a brick wall, a barmaid gnawing away with no joy or love -
Then the cloud passed over the moon, and the steeple receded back into the blackness of the night. A sign. If it wasn’t, it could be.
But we digress. Eat some BREAD!
Somehow by now this is not the stunning revelation they suspect it might be.
There’s the class of ‘68 right there. Ungrateful little bastiches. Too bad we didn’t lace the loaves.
