There's a Bloke In This Museum Dressed As a Cannonball

the kids are going nuts one almost keeled over one inquires about the whereabouts of the large-caliber pipe pistol one gives the spheroid a handshake and hug the arm like an tartarean eclipse with a surreptitious star-nosed mourning mole on the end of it one gives the projectile a high five, invented by a basketball player with four fingers but what about him? who is he under the cycloidal velvet? how did he get this gig? did he expect models draped over vintage tanks? rubenesque ladies straddling the missiles? can he take the costume home? who is responsible for it's wash? does he put a cancer stick in his touch hole in the car park? does his lady-indoors own a rammer? he wishes the day would end go home for a grapeshot that he could be elevated at forty-five degrees and sent airborne towards the automatic doors