The prophet’s new automotive coffin
is leaving Springfield. Its own radio is
airing its dwindling boom from within. He’d
left his soft, bouncy tree house, although many
guess it’s because the pneumatic actuators of
the tree house have sprung a leak, with a
suspicious-sounding crack of stepped-on
fire kindle beneath his ass.
What are you expecting from a prophet
holding his breath under the heaving
humble windmill of Springfield? Wellingtons
forcefully uprooted? Or ones – to the relief of
the Constipation Czar himself – rebounding
on, and finally kicking apart, the asylum’s
fudge shrine?
‘No way he’ll opt for the position of Cowshed
Patron Saint this time. He’s out of here.
This time maybe for good.’ He could always be
counted on to fight the farm’s impulses;
but this morning he awoke overwhelmed.
‘Fear of loss of his sweater, Frank. It was
intense. The mist on the poor old chest.
He wrote a poem about the peculiar icy
dent developing in his chest:
“Below-zero cremation is what has produced
each of my breaths this morning. Alda.
Where is my precious Alda? Whoot!”
Ranting about this “Alda” bird all the time...
Safe to say the man is clearly no longer fit
for farm duties.’
‘He was also developing pink bulging eyes. Curly
horns on his head. The last account depicted
what to all intents and purposes represented
the Abominable Snowman ensconced in
sofa porn.’
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