And you have to wear it
The whining winds create chasms and tunnels
in wintery castles like overturned funnels
And weaving in drunk like a cranky old yeoman
came Jens at the door with a leak to be winching
while I, in the bath, was a trouble full of nothing.
“What?” did I say at the screech of his hubbles,
“What Jens?” did I say as the soap bubbles mumbled
“I’m taking a piss,” came the voice from the outhouse
while slamming his brammels in well-hung garages.
“I’m taking a bath!” I cried out in caverns,
jingling my kneecaps for change in their baggies.
“Good,” did he snort as he yanked out his subway
and rattled the sewers and cesspools down under.
“Jens the last time we were in the same awning,
with me in the bath and you at the waterwheel,
I believe that we shared this exact conversation,”
I did spout with a wink for my keen observation.
“What?” did he grumble, and jiggled his hosiery
when suddenly I fell to a quixotic reverie:
“Where the whiches and whithers which haunt these dark caverns
confounding our words, as we, weaving a mirror
Of thought, can seek rest in a haven from garments
so hovelled by mothballs and soaking in taverns….”
“OK, Don, goodnight” was the answer forthcoming
as he zipped in his angular washer retubing,
While I, still digressing and laughing at plumbing,
wound in my mind down the stony path coming
and wandered away with the evening still dripping.