I Live In the Bowels of Strange
So are you a rabbit then?
I stare at the weird little guy.
What is he?
Salesman? Coffin seller or news reporter?
Who wants to know? I ask.
Putting my pocket watch back into my giant pocket.
You might be the Easter Bunny, he surmises.
This is November, is the fellow daft?
I love strange; I live in the bowels of strange.
But this inquisitive fool is beyond belief.
I hop away, and do not look back.
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