Sunday, June 26, 2016

Song of woe

We call on the Lord Musum in our distress, and he answers us. Hail with thunder and lightening rains down upon us. Save us, Lord Musum, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues. What will he do to this throng of wayward swindlers, and what more besides to their deceitful tongues? He will punish them with a god's humour, scourges thick with allegories. Woe to me that I dwell in the land of Manitou, that I live under a bridge in Winterpeg! Too long have we lived among those who hate peace. We are for peace; but when we speak, they are for war. Save us all, Lord Musum.

This throng of courtiers, prying our good wife from the joys of obscurity, into the wars of biblical interpretations, rejoicing in the wrath of the god of gods, they have absconded with her into the depths of biblical studies in a room far removed from the comings and goings of the common sinners within her care home. Took us the better part of an hour to track her down, it did. There she sat, sandwiched into a self-righteous throng of devotees of who knows what mixture of evangelicals. We sneaked in and seated ourselves silently in the corner and chuckled in smugness when our wife gave us a big wink and nodded towards her plate of cookies and milk. She knew what she was up to after all, our concern unfounded. As the closing prayer ended with “God bless us all,” we could not help ourselves but to add quietly “And the martians too.” Our dear wife spilt her milk.

Dementia has it's perks it would seem, and humour is not lost upon it. Our Lord Musum we thank you as you seat your splendor before the screens in the magnificent halls of the Ziggurat, thwarting the wayward swindlers with your remote. Cookies and milk are no match for the fallacies of the sanctimonious, short term memory loss not withstanding. Into the halls they disseminate, the absconded, filled with cookies and milk, tummies full of love, dissertations on the good book lost in the synapses of minds with a much more direct link to mother nature and the reality of self-gratification. Our Lord Musum, they thank you with lewd song and dance as you feed them lavishly, your rapturous proselytes, may their sentience sweeten your acrimony, your scourges thick with allegories.

But woe is us, who must leave the halls of the care home, and return to our bridge by the lanes and pathways beleaguered by hoards of swindlers who without milk and cookies impose themselves on our lostness to vindicate themselves from the depths of hell with their good intentions. Guide us, our Lord Musum, with your remote, that we may return innocent of salvation to our safe haven under our bridge near to the ramparts of your Ziggurat. Save us, Lord Musum, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues. Punish them with a god's humour. We honour you unceasingly, Lord Musum, our King!
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