The Mysterious Topology of Knot Formation

What with his egg-shell skull

and red beard full of demons,

discoursing on at the wake

just below the broken mirror

to a table full of tear-stained relics,

his disagreement almost convinced me

that my perfect idea was lame enough:

but fat and squat and supremely certain,

he surely would have been uncomfortable

under a tent in the endless rain,

and his snort of sure derision

only served to steer my head,

to make my path that much clearer

after being almost kissed by Jimmy's axle.

(There's a possible context for this

for which I have no name or address-

one of the places where there's a shrubbery

on every goodly trimmed and godly corner lot

and a licking tongue for each steaming greasy pot,

where a perfect photo has yet to be taken,

in which the sneaky mouse cannot be seen.)

Suddenly a great truth dawned upon me-

that hippies can be assholes too.

His seed no match to man up man enough,

I made plans to see that house with the mansard roof,

with inside delivery and liftgate service,

because the claw that holds the bloody ball

has a ticking face on each grasping talon.

I had started to count before the true beginning

and almost missed the truest end:

Towards him, I just smiled and said of course.