Ballad of the Ten Sons.

 

The ten sons, who were part of a loose knit, if ongoing, team of sorts, took turns grabbing at a furry appendage which fleetingly protruded through an opening in an otherwise opaque barrier. Their stated purpose was to bury the thing and be done with it. After all, what else could their project involve, if not the procurement of mysterious parts, to the consternation of most, but the delight of not too many in this final night of the thugfest? Most would never consider asking this kind of question, unless a rear guard action made it all but inevitable. This is where you could see some of them singing as if they really meant it. Not like the last time, if you're at all familiar.

When the first one issues his now familiar stratagem, all eyes and ears are focused as if part of a rampant melee. Each one carries a small bottle. In some cases the contents have been approved by the Lord Major. Others haven't been so lucky. One of the most low-key victims keeps his hands safely concealed beneath a treasured plate. This one has the inscription we've all been anticipating. We hear that it relates to our friends in the insect kingdom. Some of them find that uniquely laughable. Others are prepared for what cannot be avoided. Without a larger version of themselves coming to grief, that is. This is what will help you trust us no matter what conflagration shatters the peace of one thousand miniaturized blackened stones. Good for 'flicking'; but please don't go 'there' if  you know what's good for you. Sorry.

The prospective expedition to a balmy pond is what keeps them all filing backwards in a line precise enough to be observed from the flanks of 'inner space'. What galls the outermost ring of participants is that certain merrymakers have taken it upon themselves to rank their efforts on a worrying scale of appropriateness. By the time the last little bugger is grabbed and shorn of its tankless fur, you can be sure that one of their sullen dykes will have seen to it that a chewy snack is provided, if nothing else. This is where some try to worm their way in to the side where a bluff is hidden inside a temporary shithouse. They like to hound people because of it. Or else you can be assured that the trick they play in lieu of morning TV privileges is sure to gin up a mob for the coming antiquated struggle. I have each of their pictures in a book. This book is a priceless first edition. It is endorsed by the editors of Parade Magazine. One of those self-same editors one time asked me if I'd like to 'go for a ride'. I politely declined since I had a few things to take care of. He's not my friend anymore. Oh hell.

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