"Schauen sie aus den fenster," shouted Herr Taylor
"Den fenster.... den fenster"
Always kommt du hier mit den fenster. There, in the wall...
a gaping hole... just about the size of a window.
Only a mild analgesic can save you now. Reach for your salvation...
and pull down a windowshade in its stead... put the window back again
Your head pounds - you wish you could sew it back on - you're out of thread.
Your needle of nonferrous origin is not responding to Earth's great fields of magnetism
Wind is the fuel that motivates the window...
but now the wind blows befouled...
the work of a Fenster Fuel Fouler
The wind is broken...
It's broke now, I know it
It's clear to any who can see
How fouls he the fuel of the fenster? Clearly not with a chicken...
that would be the work of a Fenster Fuel Fowler
FEAR fuels the foul fenster fuel, I feel. Fear of foul fuel,
flogging a flaccid fuel flask, flooding your Firebird.
All of the windows are broken; the trade clearly inequitable...
the engine silenced.
For all men must look to the window for the inspiration of the sky beyond...
to avert ones eyes, is to convert all one's riches to confederate currency
None of this will help the fouled flowing breeze...
the dietician of the stars hands you a bottle of kelp tablets...
and the sun sets
for the last time.
- finis -
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