a fishbowl. Well, I’ll stay with him tonight and go to San Francisco tomorrow.
On a nearby rooftop, watcheeng, ees Hawkman heemself, watcheeng all de booldeengs, who come, who go, what cheek ees seeteeng alone een a pad weeth de weendow open. Hawkman moob from hees towereeng perch. Over hees shoulders ees worn an old sheet, hees cloak. He leap from one rooftop to another, and go quietly ober de edge ob de roof an down de fire escape an look en de open weendow, where de cheek ees seeteeng.
“Cha cha cha, baby.”
“Beat it, man.”
“I’m comin’ een, baby,” say Hawkman, an he flap on tru’ de weendow, an land on de floor, an de cheek, she run for de door, but Hawkman, he a fast hombre, he queeker dan Speedy Gonzales, he got de cheek, an he plank her down.
“Lemme alone, man,” says de cheek.
“Take off you clothes, baby,” say Hawkman, “so you don’ get hurt.”
Walking along the street, man, carrying my satchel, what is that music, man, coming out of my satchel. Opening my satchel, man, I perceive that saxophone music is coming out of my WALKIE-TALKIE! The saxophone player, man, is contacting me.
“… crackle … sputter … honk… crackle… .”
“Hello man, hello this is Horse Badorties, man. I read you. Where are you, man? You sound tremendously far away, man.”
“
…
crackle
…
honk… crackle
…
”
“Right, man, I read you. Horse Badorties here, man, where are you?”
“I’m standin in the doorway right alongside you, man.”
“Hey, man, there you are! Terrific, man, these walkie-talkies are tremendously powerful, man, wouldn’t you say?”
“Definitely, man.”
“Dig, man, come to the Love Chorus rehearsal with me.”
“Alright, man, but first let’s smoke a little of this,” says the saxophone.
And he removes from his case a tremendous cigar shaped joint, composed of several papers rolled together and no doubt filled with a mild stimulant, perhaps ground-up sesame seeds and rice flour.
“Allow me, man, to apply the award-winning Japanese match, man …”
Scratch… scratch
…
“Here, man, try my Zippo.”
“Right, man, the good old USA. Terrific, man.”
Smoking down tremendous joint.
“It’s sprinkled and flavored throughout, man,” says the saxophone, “with various chemicals.”
“Absolutely, man, to preserve and promote shelf-life.”
Fantastic dynamite angel-smoke, man, my head is going through the side of the building. Man, I am an old bunch of bricks. I am STONED, man, I am floating through different places up and down the street.
“Let’s play some music, man,” says the saxophone.
“Definitely, man. I have to be at my rehearsal half an hour ago.”
We tune up, man, and we play, playing swift sweet melody.
“Is good for you, baby,” say Hawkman, on top ob de blonde cheek.
“Oh, you lousy spic bastard,” say de cheek, struggleeng a leetle.
“Walk along while we play, man, through the street, man, and over to the church. My eyes, man, are hurting me, wait a second, man, while I get my opalescent birdwing sunglasses out of my satchel. I’m stoned out of my mind, man. Where are we, man, in the A & P?”
“You’re on the street, man,” says the saxophone. “Dig the traffic.”
“Crazy, man, I can hear gongs in there somewhere.”
“Look, man,” says the saxophone, “I don’t want to bring you down, man, but you are standin there with your head turned, man, listenin to the street. It looks weird, man. A cop might wonder what you are listenin to, man.”
“Gongs, man. Listen to them.”
“You are putting me on, man.” Bend over, listenin to the street. “You are right, man. There are gongs in there.”
“Yes, and what is more, man, there is Puerto Rican music coming out of that restaurant. Walk faster, man, before it envelops us.”
“You should try and dig their music, man.”
“Yes, man, I’d like to dig it, six feet under the ground, man, in a hole, and bury it. Here’s St. Nancy’s, man, let’s go
On a nearby rooftop, watcheeng, ees Hawkman heemself, watcheeng all de booldeengs, who come, who go, what cheek ees seeteeng alone een a pad weeth de weendow open. Hawkman moob from hees towereeng perch. Over hees shoulders ees worn an old sheet, hees cloak. He leap from one rooftop to another, and go quietly ober de edge ob de roof an down de fire escape an look en de open weendow, where de cheek ees seeteeng.
“Cha cha cha, baby.”
“Beat it, man.”
“I’m comin’ een, baby,” say Hawkman, an he flap on tru’ de weendow, an land on de floor, an de cheek, she run for de door, but Hawkman, he a fast hombre, he queeker dan Speedy Gonzales, he got de cheek, an he plank her down.
“Lemme alone, man,” says de cheek.
“Take off you clothes, baby,” say Hawkman, “so you don’ get hurt.”
Walking along the street, man, carrying my satchel, what is that music, man, coming out of my satchel. Opening my satchel, man, I perceive that saxophone music is coming out of my WALKIE-TALKIE! The saxophone player, man, is contacting me.
“… crackle … sputter … honk… crackle… .”
“Hello man, hello this is Horse Badorties, man. I read you. Where are you, man? You sound tremendously far away, man.”
“
…
crackle
…
honk… crackle
…
”
“Right, man, I read you. Horse Badorties here, man, where are you?”
“I’m standin in the doorway right alongside you, man.”
“Hey, man, there you are! Terrific, man, these walkie-talkies are tremendously powerful, man, wouldn’t you say?”
“Definitely, man.”
“Dig, man, come to the Love Chorus rehearsal with me.”
“Alright, man, but first let’s smoke a little of this,” says the saxophone.
And he removes from his case a tremendous cigar shaped joint, composed of several papers rolled together and no doubt filled with a mild stimulant, perhaps ground-up sesame seeds and rice flour.
“Allow me, man, to apply the award-winning Japanese match, man …”
Scratch… scratch
…
“Here, man, try my Zippo.”
“Right, man, the good old USA. Terrific, man.”
Smoking down tremendous joint.
“It’s sprinkled and flavored throughout, man,” says the saxophone, “with various chemicals.”
“Absolutely, man, to preserve and promote shelf-life.”
Fantastic dynamite angel-smoke, man, my head is going through the side of the building. Man, I am an old bunch of bricks. I am STONED, man, I am floating through different places up and down the street.
“Let’s play some music, man,” says the saxophone.
“Definitely, man. I have to be at my rehearsal half an hour ago.”
We tune up, man, and we play, playing swift sweet melody.
“Is good for you, baby,” say Hawkman, on top ob de blonde cheek.
“Oh, you lousy spic bastard,” say de cheek, struggleeng a leetle.
“Walk along while we play, man, through the street, man, and over to the church. My eyes, man, are hurting me, wait a second, man, while I get my opalescent birdwing sunglasses out of my satchel. I’m stoned out of my mind, man. Where are we, man, in the A & P?”
“You’re on the street, man,” says the saxophone. “Dig the traffic.”
“Crazy, man, I can hear gongs in there somewhere.”
“Look, man,” says the saxophone, “I don’t want to bring you down, man, but you are standin there with your head turned, man, listenin to the street. It looks weird, man. A cop might wonder what you are listenin to, man.”
“Gongs, man. Listen to them.”
“You are putting me on, man.” Bend over, listenin to the street. “You are right, man. There are gongs in there.”
“Yes, and what is more, man, there is Puerto Rican music coming out of that restaurant. Walk faster, man, before it envelops us.”
“You should try and dig their music, man.”
“Yes, man, I’d like to dig it, six feet under the ground, man, in a hole, and bury it. Here’s St. Nancy’s, man, let’s go
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