Since the dim misty reaches of the dawn of civilized (sic)(sick) existence — ergo, the spoken, followed by the rhythmically spoken, followed by the written, followed again by the printed, telecast, and Web word; all of which, it is becoming increasingly clear, we must necessarily once again transcend in favor of the Light Word if we wish to pursue an at all actualized state of said “civilization” —
….Breathe… Hey, depending on the ending (Did you catch how cutely that rhymed? Gotta say it agin, cain’t hep myself:) I say, depending on the ending, so far, yours-most-indeed-foolie has been making perhaps elaborately punctuated, perhaps somewhat circuitous, but otherwise absolutely perfect sense here, admit it, Jack…
— poets and fine (cave wall) artists have been of an — ah — creative persuasion when it came to their personal presentation among brethren and sistren troglodytes.
While archaeological evidence is to date a little thin on any hard evidentiary support for the contention, this poet is positive we were the ones either moving among magnificently zebra-cloaked multitudes clad in a single mangy hyena-chewed oscelot hide or, conversely, slinking through hordes (back in those days, that meant two or three) of the mostly naked, drawing disapproving glances for our provocative practice of covering the genitals (and for having discovered the combined properties of tree sap and ground mica when applied to tiny triangles of oscelot hide)…
…Oh, just listen to the piece.
“A Real Bombshell” (4:00 fast minutes, promise):