History prepares us to expect arrivals of the celestial fashion. Delivers the bumbling flight of a stork to an enchanted river, where one may float majestically – cushioned and bundled, on a woven vessel of faggot – to appear of miraculous conception. The prophets we birth with our wonder, not oft do they emerge of the flame…
Newly uncovered artifacts are begging for symbolic interpretations of mythical proportions. Are the accounts of Monte Hansen’s arrival ubiquitous in metaphor, or was his life truly sculpted to reflect the form in which he was delivered? The simplest answer is likely to exist in a text long lost with the original Book of Irving transcripts. Several pages have recently surfaced of version 82431 and are sure to hold the key.
Cometh they must on nights of mischief.
Bringeth they their shenanigans.
Once used to ward with spirits, now purposed to elicit the ignoble’s chuckle.
A search for sacrifice lends to thy ear rewards with treasures explosive.
Long dreams darkness the calls of a phoenix.
Accompany the chorus of strain.
A race to place the haste in waste.
Oh bucket of detriment, increment excrements.
Positioned that one may dutily process, hangs a mother her cloak of shame.
The cold steel stills his heart.
Aborted for cause which one not knows, assume in rhyme with death.
Methods of will what ill reveals as fruit to the fun of a joker.
Protector of evil, forgiver of sins, alert thy keep to devilish schemes.
That through which his love shines stained may soon be broken by jest.
In prayer for the knave, “May the wicked behave,” when a cryptic reply thrice knocked and belied.
Twas odors of rank and a fiery wisp concealing a prize, the chaplain’s gift.
A heart’s rush of blood to extinguish the blaze, up twice rose his leg and with force down it came.
The compression of chest and expulsion of breath could not have been foreseen.
The miscreant had his heckle, and Phoenix had his flame.
Thus cold steel in wound of thy heart, heats to cauterize, save.
Trust in thee, thou witnessed as written:
Never to waiver and ever to last;
a flame, ye pile o’ shit.
That no man, mother, or lord pray want you,
that shall be thy gift.
True be it, forever remain Monte the Unbecoming.
Unbecoming to the stork who scooped from rivers of log;
and the Joker whose search for poop found you,
twas the sound that you made when you plopped.
From a measure of filth, rivaled by none, comes one miraculous act.
The act of how seed took to his mother, who shall never have want of him back.