The swollen motorcycle bolts and gibbers

Like a copulating, silent horse,

Squeels, whines across the concrete desert

Under the bounding moon,

Old Polb upon her, bullocking his quaking saddle, quoink, quoink,

Mouth yawling open to the distant city

While looming in the sky across the prairie

Great Pud inflates his thunderous gum of ages.

The motorcycle dwindles through his legs.

“Thy opulence confounds the drum of ages

O Pud, thou maker of the heavy skies,

Grant me this thing, this thing that I have here.”

Pud dwindles; the huge figure on the plain

Convulsed in sobbing, pleading for a word

Was answered with a distant auto horn.

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