”40” posted the hog, his snout elongated and sniffly
Nursing a cold like a new witch nurse’s a baby familiar
He looked at his accounting books from the milk crate factory
Beeswax slipped slowly down the morning milkshake
Shining yellow wattle light upon the poster on the wall
His old friend’s monkey and fox, and him, and the band they used to play in
Monkey had what? Gone to be a chef at that restaurant, in where? the London grotto?
Fox was Vixen now and made silk scarves and could she still forge the fakes?
Back to it, working, in the old accounting books, no cooking these he thought, taking a sip and trying not to sneeze
Clean now. Could the band still play? After all we were called
Crime’6 D0 Pa7
that was it! 60. The hog typed the answer into the log and decided to take a break.
He would give the old band a call, as soon as this cold passed.
Sniffling and wiping the last of the shake off his bristles, it was snowing again and time to go