arthur headed down to the river with his new friend asmodeus the archangel.
the streets were strangely deserted.
if everybody is gathering at the river, arthur asked asmodeus, why are the streets so deserted?
if the desert is so empty, asmodeus replied, why is there so much sand in it?
i have no time for silly wise sayings, arthur felt like replying, but before he make up his mind as to whether or not to say it out loud, a voice beside him said -
do not mind him, that is just his way - the way of the assassin.
without breaking his stride, arthur turned his head and saw a scrawny young man walking alongside him on his right.. he was the scrawniest young man arthur had ever seen, and he was wearing a raggedy black beret and had a silly little black beard. he was walking beside arthur in a natural way, like he and arthur were the oldest friends in the world.
who might you be? arthur asked him. do i know you?
some people call me billy the kid, the young man said. and some know me as blackbeard the pirate, and others yet as the bad boy at the end of the world. but whichever name you know me by, i am a beatnik poet.
you do not say so, said arthur. i always dreamed of being a beatnik poet myself, but my aunt geraldine would not hear of such a thing.
well, if you wish to try your hand at being one, bad boy billy blackbeard said, you had best start your motor running, because time is getting short, and we are almost at the river at which we must all gather.
you may so, arthur replied. but i do not see hide nor hair of any river yet.
just you wait, the poet said.
while we are sauntering along in this desultory manner under a blue sky, arthur said, why do you not favor us with one of your beatnik poems?
yes, billy, why don’t you, asmodeus interjected.
it would be my pleasure, billy said, and he proceeded to declaim -
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