e, self appointed village idiot, addresses the people
You kamping fiends...
Once again you gather to cajole, to vituperate and to cast your brash canards like sour seed upon the stones where you, sorry crew of vermin, fall. And to tell it all, it seems the casual light of the stars is but a single ember, burning in the night. Lo, the flight of an ash, o'er the dark, rolling clouds to rest at last on ruddy earth save one which, with a wisp of smoke and a wink, lay on the lapped shore, damp and black in the twilight.
And now, my would be opponents, I see you writhe and seethe like red hot iron, itching and twitching with anticipation of the coming bout. Were this but another eve, ere once the loutish laugh and the singular sordid kampers run amok in the dark, would I then hold a faint prayer for some eventual fate. As it is, you'll soon feel the sharpness of a wit, cruel fate though it be, and the barbs and jabs of one locked in his own free running discourse.
So on a day to come some soon sorry Spring morn, lest rosy fingered Dawn stretch her grasp round the Eastern sky to touch the fading night now spent, or clutch your furry nuts in a languid squeeze, a wretched start to the festivities will raise you with a flash and a crash and a drenching fall of rain. But hold fast ... the heavens change and an azure air will surely grace your serene but eventual demise.
- the village idiot, Spring, 1999
