I always told them that the story really started in the ditch at the side of the tracks and that the details, which I promised never to reveal to anyone, are painful and shocking as the details often are, but the fact of the matter is The Clevenger did forget and now he's dead. So perhaps the time is finally come for me to tell the tale and have done with it

It was late December and I hadn't seen the swings for weeks. Usually it wouldn't bother me too much but the downstirs kin had begun the mark of the hypocrits, having dug the prime number once too often they were jonzing for a heay dose of Marsharn and I'm afraid I was gonna take the fall if I didn't raise the paper in a hurry.

It was only 1:00 or 2:00 so I decided to head out on my broom and sweep the city clean until I had fully dug the destiny of my swingie swing. To see if she'd realized the neutral catergories of error or simply goofed to Whig City. If so I knew it was gonna be a sad drag from here on out.

First off I made for the Tabby Apple: a jive-box straight out of night gallery where sweaty couples writhed under heat lamps to the crazy lumbering rhythms of the band that dressed in frilly fushia toxedoes and sounded like Dessi Aness on some kind of psychedelic bally.

Thirteen was behide the bar and I sounded him to dig if he had seen the swing lately but he couldn't recall right away. So I drew him a picture but he couldn't hear it.

I decided to swoop the scene and fly to Wicker Swing's old neighborhood. There zero in on a club called the Magneto where I'd heard they'd served a drink Swing evented called the pilot light. A sweet little taste at first but a brain bender later on, hard enough to take any chump chumpy enough to try it straight to the burning in ash to bulla brigde.

That was when I bumped into 47. Old 47, tanked up on the Bean as usual and feeling no pain from the morphine he'd had the for lunch that day lit up like a fuse at the mention of Swing's tang and vowed safe to me that he had the bushy tail to come along.

Now I knew that 47 had long since relegated his routine synapse dos to the thriteenth quadrant of his subconscios mind, but he never wigged on me, and I knew if I flopped in a puddle three feet deep somewhere along the way he might just be the worthy stud to help pull me out and wipe off the gin.

I said, I think I hear the fat lady. 47 concured explicitly and we tuned out. On the way out we nearly tripped over an alley cat blowing his modes for chomp change, mama always told me to stay away from a man in his modal stage so I made like I was fresh out of paper in hopes that the troll would let us pass without the toll - but he was hip to the scene and began writing rumshots at a moments notice. He took a drive, hit a ghost lost his head, and now he's toast.

Later we dug from Shorty George that the cat had bugged to the way outisphere some years ago so no mayor cope out there, thank god. We decided to stop in at the dinner grill and dig Marty and Steve and the baldy dinner head crowd, shooting craps over the last few slices of the day's hamhocks.

'Here we divvided the plunder', cried Hewy.

'As a young girl goes to the bridal chamber', Billie Est replied, 'So go I to the grill with this tasty morsel!'

Pork went up and smacked them both for brutalizing the species. Suddenly in walked Swing, and gassed the whole sphere with her indelible groovitude.
'
Bonseir Keskies', said she. 'It's sunset time, and I've got the moon chariot to prove it'.

I dug through the icing glass the sweetest little ride I'd ever seen, Swing smiled that sly smile of hers and we tuned out. It's been that way ever since, just swing, 47 and moi, in a beauty spin, all across the hippisphere.

Never mind the kin, we are gone kith, solid gone.
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Thanks to (BigDim) for correcting these lyrics. May 20, 2008

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