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Dream Song 111: I miss him. When I get back to camp

by
 I miss him.
When I get back to camp I'll dig him up.
Well, he can prop & watch, can't he, pink or blue, and I will talk to him.
I miss him.
Slams, grand or any, aren't for the tundra much.
One face-card will do.
It's marvellous how four sit down—beyond my thought how many tables sometimes are in forgotten clubs across & down the world.
Your fever conned us, pal.
Will it work out, my solitaire? The blubber's safe in the tubs, the dogs are still, & all's well .
.
.
nine long times I loosed & buried.
Then I shot him dead.
I don't remember why.
The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes, thinks I killed him.
The black cards are red and where's the others? I—

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