I WILL NOT GO BACK TO WINOOT

I will not go back to Winoot. It's because of an experience I had there. Actually, I was passing through town, and with nothing to do I went to a Groucho Marx movie. That was the good part. The bad part was afterwards. I must have said the wrong things to those street-people because they clamped my head against a building. I mean it was tight - it was a q-clamp, and it was c-shaped. I hadn't seen a q-clamp in years and now there was one clasped tightly around my skull, fastening me to the Morriff Bank, and the street-people were gone. Frustrated, I thought up a poem.


I tried to dislodge, to no avail

Children threw sand from their pail

A woman gawked and raised a tiffy

A puppy lifted his leg and skiffled



A cop stood glaring and penned a ticket

While Gus from the bank turned on a spigot

My brow beneath the q-clamp itched

A mugger came by and leached my pocket



A guy who said he knew me in school

Said to clean off what he thought was drool

A guy who said he had fired my boss

Invited me to what he called an

old-fashioned ring-toss



I tried again to unwedge my head

Some skin peeled off and I aborted mission

With darkness afoot, hunger came

I started to wish I had someone to blame



Just when I thought I'd had enough

Some punks came by and acted tough

A big one said, "Man, I feel vivified"

He punched my head two times



A mason cemented my feet to the brick

He said, "If I were you I'd leave

this town quick"

Hurting, I wished I was still watching Marx

But a Marxist in Winoot is only a farce