I drove with three sitting in the car.
The year was not this one.
One in front, one in back, and me
I could feel it. A small irritant,
A grating ingratiate of all
A lonesome thing, the follicle that
Would soon be
From it's roots and tender membranes of
The mucoul membranes would remember best
Except for black rooster
That which derived from the nostril.
For it flew through the air
Like a tiny trapeze
A little black line of two dimentia
And one department store
Then black rooster howled with rage
Then howled with terror as
The follicale of nostrilness landed
Upon his unprotected dermal near his mouth.
He said, "Ye gads, what can this be,
Not a caterpillar, says me, not a fly wing,
Not, something different and something glee,
With frumtious molly and lithome sting,
It hath flown with unerringly acute precision
And struck mine eyes with the little pointy end!"
The driver knowing not what had happening continued
His picking of nose hairs and flicking them into the
"Oh, they bother me so, they stick out of my nose, they trouble my toothbrush and get in the way of contemplation of universal truths and falsehoods. How can this be! They must be plucked and thrown and then the world will be a better can of mace. And you can quote someone else on that so help me or I'll tie my shoe with a tooth brush and stamp clumps of grass till the cows turn into mcdonalds milkshakes.
(C) Copyright 1992 by Scot Ranney