Segment

Yes, the children are ripe for picking and the ducks do no watch their little ones when the fat man throws bread in their direction. The Wonder Bread bag crinkles and the mountain lion sits ready to pounce as Charlie's Angel watches the scence from above. Her harp plays a golden soliloquy of her forlorn youth spent playing the xylophone. The vile instrument of hate that ate up her youth, before the sun could dry her skin into its once withered state. Oh, who'll weep for me when my little one has left me and begins to wander with her own companions through the modern murky muck we call social intercourse. Will she betray me with her smile? Or, will it be the stupid question she asks the flight attendant on that one-way train to bliss? No, I'll have a non-smoking seat, thank you. © Copyright 1993 by Alex Poulos.