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A Mid Spring's Day Dream
(All Apologies to Shakespeare)
by Robert C. J. Graves

Big Chet and I drank a twelve of the Best, happy as kids eating Whistle Pops, just fishing, bitchin ‘bout the Browns’ season, and whiners like Randy Moss.
Soon Chet, drunk Chet who loves birds, had to go chase the call of a blue heron, but ’long the way back to our best spot, he stepped in a bear trap, silver with razor webs of rust, that bit him hard and held.

Knavish fool, in his drunken bemoan he cried not for help, but ‘stead resigned himself on his Bottom to song.
Iron Man, Stairway to Heaven, Freeze Frame, he sang every song he knew the words to, and as fate would always have it, Chet was a lucky Puck, for his singing charmed a smokin' hot Faerie Queen.

Meanwhile, I had passed out on the dock but awoke as the earth shook when at nearby Wright/Pat’ Air Force Base crashed a billion dollar Stealth Bomber.
In my bibulous brain the flames seemed a load star. "Please let that be Air Force One," I said aloud—as these were the W. years—and turned to Chet, absent Chet, for reply.

Combed I the nearby bosky grove for my friend, but the crash smoke eclipsed the day.
Luckily, I kicked Chet’s beer can left like Thisbe’s bloody mantle beside the empty trap.
Tuned by this clue, followed I faint song soon to be discerned as a symphony of birds conducted by the Faerie Queen rocking most triumphant whilst Chet lyrics belted.
I joined them, and rocked we hard, but soon woke in an ambulance with IVs in our arms.