The Whistle


Bryan heard it and turned left, into the Milky Way

Bryan’s friends would follow soon enough

Into a deadly iron box from Rangoon!

Where they were crushed into small globules and left to bounce

Against each other as colloids,

Bryans 1—infinity

Wearers of brown shoes and nuanced jeggings!

Of short boxed beards and brown conks!

The box emits the beautiful noise of indignant terror:

“Why can’t a man take pride in his appearance?”

As the rats scuttle over the box, snarling

“He can. But not in a gauche, para-military manner!”

Just the one rat said this, the one in sweat pants and a Metallica sweater,

And the terrible part is the others turned on him and slayed him

For speaking to the Bryans, for speaking to slurry!

“That way madness lies,” the King Rat said,

Extracting a pea-coat button from his teeth and flicking it to the street,


All the Bryans hear the ping and come running!

The sound of thousands of rat-claws tapping in unison makes the Jupiter Symphony tremble

“I am death” roars the mouth of the alley but the Bryans

Never falter: I want to look like THIS, they say, pointing to every man they see

And the lady rat hairdressers pick up their scissors and neatly cut their throats.

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