I'm A Very Neat Monster.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

In That Tremendous Flash Of Freedom, On My Way To Do The Thing For The First Time, Sanctioned By Almighty Harry, I Receded, Faded Back Into The Scenery Of My Own Dark Self, Whole The Other Me Crouched And Growled. I Would Do It At Last, Do What I Had Been Created To Do. And I Did.

Or Was He Saying, "hi! Wanna Play?" And I Did. Of Course I Did.

Getting Yelled At By A Furious Woman Should Be Treated As A Semiformal Occasion.

It Happens; Incompetence Is Rewarded More Often Than Not.