Him all smacking and shake it against his little home, he beat it on the bars and cry out with injustice. Him there in his home, smack with his fat fingers, our dear little him, never dreadful and monstrous, him delightful him.
He lift up his little toy what we won him at the outside and he grin with his big shiny tooth. Him to hold it up with beaming sincerity and mumble a word what could very well be a great hearty thank you.
We do not and could not would ever reprimand him. Sweet sticky thing down there in his little home, scrawls on the walls some words we can’t fathom and can’t dare muster up.
We mumbles out words and our him he goes:
We mumbles out more and more and he lift up his face:
He show us in his damned fat fingers his precious what we won him. We grin all down on him and he hold it in abundance.
In nighttime him lie there, breathe silent and plunging off into that dream town.
We stand all around him and stare at fat body. The toy what we won him does fall from fat fingers and we each and all of us do so admire it. We scoop it up slightly and watch its sweet magic.
With sacred patience and a short silence, we retrieve our majesty from that little toy and we keep careful monitor that him does not awaken and see us as we do it.
Filthy fingers of ours slip over the toy and unlock the crying chorus that will sing us to sleep.
The sound what it comes out does lift us on high. It like nothing before and we weep as it sing us, with cosmic projection and sound of constellations spinning in time with silvery space dogs.
It will sing us to god, to sweet him if we are lucky.
“Holding these things in my hand, and I end up seeing everything.”
When him awaken he see us all smile, we stroke his fat face.
Him reach for his toy, what we won for him on the outside and he hold it near and dear. He grinning up and we spy a shiny tooth, slick with hours of timeless life living.
We watch him crawl around on all fours like a good dog and we praise him for it.
Him cuddle down in his little home and run fat fingers across the bars we put for protection.
Them, they may want him but we do protect it. Our sweet little him, we love him so, we do. They’ll never have him, for this him is ours. We found and we bore him, we made and shall raise him. We was it, yes, who won him that toy from out there on the outside, and with it shall we be, and through us shall it be to him. Our precious protection and the glory of the cosmos. We love and protect him, our sweet little Jim.
"Jim Parades a Toy"
Copyright: © 2011 Josh Myers
Josh Myers writes things like a good fishy and he eats and sleeps mostly. He's too fat and is going to die probably.