The Mad Tale of Paul

Memories of Mr. Rogers
August 21, 2012
The Religion of Coffeehouses
August 25, 2012

“I’ll tell you a tall tale,” she wooed, “but shorter than sheep,” she waned, waxing on.
The mudsticks meddlesome in snapping fire. The oracling orb of moon in its shine.
She began:

“That day was mad, I’m sure of it! Wind washed over the fire-headed din of which the corpsèd man had somehow fortune strung,
Then singing: Ding Dong Merrily Along and other words the which haven’t made their merry way to me quite yet.”

And she bubbled in her babbling a cheerful moment so.

“Why, ’twas a song strung out like arms upon an albatross!
And perhaps it is the frothy beer and perhaps the fire fuming in its way;
But I’ll have my say, the tippled way, I’m sure of it!”

“Yes, no doubt, I’m sure, quite confident,” I mused behind a biscuit.

“Did you know he laid a skillful blade between the corridors of heart and happiness?
To the store he lent his gait but for a day until the day became a lifetime.”

Wherethen the silence brewed as willful tea, quite strong, and green like the perch of doves.

“Now I’m not sure where you’re getting, ma’am—” I curdled under bellowsome breath.

“Haven’t you heart th’unsavory word I’ve spent my moon now uttering?
I’m nigh onto death, or sleep, eitherwhich, but pay some godlike attention!”

To which I cooed with a quainting grin, begging amends, and on she went with a yarn.

“He made tents, made them fast and fat and loud.
He housed the great haven of citizen-soliders, what shredded
The furrowing Jews.
He made friends thereafter, flapping about in the wind.
But I cannot remember thewhich he liked best.”

Patting her solid on a humpsake back, I quelled her nervous relating:
“Dear woman, you’re solid sound mad, I’m loathe to admit.
But what is it they say, by the man, come this way,
The man with a talent for telling a tale of the old Jewish way?
‘Be kind in the end to your madness,’ he says.
‘Be kind in the end to your sin.'”



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