home post-war,
and with damp gauzy medieval
and as we passed
And one more thing!
met a man—
rag-bandaged,
bloody,
yet cartoony—
chipped,
and dried-
out like
a tough bit
of old liver sausage would be—
and with damp gauzy medieval
claptraps of shoes
on each foot
that happened to hamper even
the decisiveness
of his limp;
and as we passed
he said
to me—
but only
with his one
protruding eyeball,
and with
the little filthy
harmonica at his lips—
Son,
it ain't enough
to have good ideas—or consistently.
You have
You have
to learn how
to have quick ones—and shit 'em out constantly;
not to mention the gumption,
the start-up cash,
and all that machinery.
And one more thing!
he whistled:
a gimmick—
somethin' silvery
slick—to distract 'em
from the stink
of the attack
that you're leveling—such as
a charmin'—
disarmin'—
colloquial way of speakin'.