Letter home

Ma,

I feel compelled to write ya'll, given the grave sufferances of these last sore days. It was not of my makin' that, tarred and feathered, they pushed me to the Styx with a host of flies buzzin' in mah poor ears. See, they would not desist, even when we hit the water in that cold, cold hemp bag.

It was of that very self-same strange light wherein I spied ya, writhin' on the chair like some hog-tied sucklin' pig.  It was from sheer pity that mah chain-saw fell. You know that, ma!  When I fetch out my eye-glass to look-see and it was all bones and blubber on the floor, do you think it was not in my very contemplation to offer you mah hand in dance?

Were it not that it too lie severed and stumbling in the sawdust beside ya'll, scuttlin' off to shadow as fass as its floppy little fingers would permit.

They say I am a bad, bad boy, ma but dance is all for my wanton do.

Just waltz-time limbless and flapping.

yours as ever ….