"And by the
bye," he expostulated,
Recalling some distant, departed conspiracy,
"I would raise a glass with you
To all who, in affirming life and living,
Stand by definition against brutish conflict
Led and fed by the demon-spawn
In expensive suits."
He rubbed his ample proboscis
and added,
"Fervently I hope that my other soprano-friend
And you and I can find a word-strewn tavern
In which to contemplate our blessings
And our banes and our dreads
Assisted by meditative fluids
And joyously distracted
By lush, melodious strains."
And his very thoughts were suddenly
afloat,
Awash in some celestial elixir,
Tart lager blended with guitar song
And a generous dash of laughter.
He grinned in sly anticipation, inwardly intoning:
Trouble lies ahead—the good kind.
