He wrote a new song, never got the gong, sipping his bong, never gone for long
then carpel tunnel, the sky in a funnel, the PO on four days, his diet, frito lays
he couldn't sell a damn thing, let alone sing, so he took to champagne, hisself to blame,
no goal to strive, no car to drive, no authority to take a dive, if a bear, he'd swat the hive
now but a jester, he fled the sequester, back to the bar, he runs again into Chester
he thought well shucks, why not cut and paste, if this is a waste, take a taste, to better days.
Chester, well Chet you can bet didn't know when to stop, never let the elbow drop. Outofdoors
he smokes wacky-tobacky, and scouts for whores. So now his privates fester, never should have undressed her, sad Chester, never bester, sick old fool, the jester of sequester. He could only yell then slap his knee every time he tried to flee. He gets another round. Now all alone. The jukebox unplugged; he'd change in he is pocket, but the last call girl, she wanted a rocket, and not ol' Chester the jester of sequester. He's no downtown cruiser, just a loser, awaking alone, no money, no home, no window to through it out of. So he finds the library, waits till it opens, looking down, he finds his way to the Milton shelf, again feeling like an elf. His ears hot and pointed. What's left of his health, all disjointed. Later, it's time to get anointed. He finds a shower. He thinks of using an electric razor in the shower. He turns on the cold water. Bad idea, he slips and falls, dreaming of Lea. At the half-way house the yell, here comes Chet of no regret! A convivial sort, he declines a snort, remembers how he was short, this Chester, the jester of sequester. He goes back to the Greyhound depot. From the locker, he finds his Amex Uranium in small lime-colored volume of
St. Augustine, and a small tube of AIM toothpaste. He spiffs up as best he can, dizzy. An odd fellow in the mirror. A bum sleeps, snoring in the locked beige stall. Some cad has written E=Mc Squirreled in indigo magic marker on the other broken toilet stall door. Overhead a florescent bulb is grey. An over sized cicada with huge sparky purplish eyes apparently is near death with its buzzing on one of the the good lights. Otherwise the coast is clear. On the way to his broker, Fe-Fi Mutton, Inc., he stops and buys a new suit, a zoot suit, comically; he is the only one in the haberdashery, and Louise of seasonal sneeze is glad to see him. Really she is and he covers his beefy breath standing a good foot or two away from her, respecting her family way beneath a batik blousey arrangement--admiring her petite ambiance, though her hair needed freshening and she snappily chewed wintergreen gum. He gives her ten bucks over and out and she says to Chet you're all wet! Gently snow floats. Chester the jester of sequester removes five Lincolns from the ATM. Across the street, the crew of the hook and ladder truck out from the hubbub and commotion on the street, the mingly, jingly crowd on the street, apparently attempts to negotiate through bull horns with a guy in an overcoat on the ledge of a tall, grey flannel colored building. There's a pronounced whoosh of carbon monoxide and more arriving sirens, a satellite TV truck with a super-bright light, and a giant orange-red chromium yellow air bag inflates.