Charlie clambers crazily
toward radical yogini therapy,
composing quickly as he goes...
“If seems there
an oddball acceleration,
a spittle spattering stuttering
to the chit and chat
of this that and sundry,
if below the sun
I bumbly blurt and blather
work yourself not into a lather-
‘tis no great grand matter.
This friendly fool, Lord knows,
will be praying - ‘Rain!’-
the patter pitter to obscure
the mild, thus endurable, pain
of a savage heart aflutter,
a marauding mind atwitter.”
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