I pegged my fate to Michael Jackson’s trial outcome today.  If he had been found guilty of anything, I was going to forego running (in Dreamland) and submit to additional evening manual labor.  If he was found innocent of all charges, I would run free instead, enjoy a beer, and blog.

I’m singing in the rain (my sweat).

Corona.

The sunbeams benumb me.

The bumblebees buzz the budding blossoms.

The birds (being the little dirty dinosaurs they are)

bellow species-conquering ballads.

A north korean stalinist sparrow screeches steely in a gum tree afar.

While a neo-hitlerite hen wails (yet) of thousand-year henhouses to come.

The osama bin lark lurks hidden in scrub brush,

emitting taunting tones of future bird shit attacks.

While the bird in the Bush chirps like a cuckoo that the sky is falling,

 and all risks (except environmental ones) are code-red imminent.

It’s okay.  I’ve got plenty of birdshot.  And I pray to Minerva.

She’s a t-rex descended predator-owl, you know. 

And she sucks bird blood.  Real good.  And without a sound.