12.

St. Stephen walked the narrow divide.

Of broken telephone tynes 

Grated and prolorn 

Dark green and purple skies

A 5/8 rhythm was unfolding

The bass was spastic and under renown

The strings were snapping like old sea turtles

The moccasin clad Paiute woman, Light Cloud,

Clambered up the cliff

Singing the song of the crow

Bob Dylan was in face make up

And wore a hat taken from the Napa Valley theatre company

He tried to sing but only squelches of a prairie cat came out

A book written in an ancient language

Was stood on by St. Stephen

Dark red misty eyes 

And sullen star lit night skies

Embraced the baby's cries

A triad of harmonies

Echoed in deep Las Vegas casinos

Herbert Hoover bent over and cried

Before he puked

Up a spaghetti and meatballs lunch