Tired of desks and counters and attentive stances, of counters crossed with curses and of-courses and of the supercilious appraising glances of the clerks and Clarks and Shirleys and sheriffs of the cake-like courthouse of our county courthouse, of metermaid and bailiff, I say Let me be blithe in dealing with the world -- But not today when I go into the Tippetycanoe County Courtyhouse to set matters right, clacketing with the metal of military Jehosephat. There the cops look of the freeway and are numbered three and thirty, there the cops are booking and booted, blibbelating and I wish to caret my fingers into their sheriff noses. I wish to caret my middle finger in their personal face-territory. Help me to do this what is necessary to these sheriffs and clerks when I go in to the Tippetycanoe Countatty Quarty-house this day. Help me in on the marble, in the holy oak I think, aid me in it in the vaultish chambers of the quiet rococo thing. Help me out to call the clerks like Rambo avoid the sodaddy swulping of the mooching cop-cops who WILL come slinging-O. I am Ninja. Help me in pulling fire alarms I am Ninja. Help me to respect God and be the handmaiden of ire Ninja. Help me O Helen Reddy, Ninja of the hair. Aid me in the rococketycoco whirl of my fighting technique, my disco-ball of wrath, Aid me Lord in the Ninja deed: Rambo come to me, Chuck Norris come. Mad Max I say come to me: Samson in Gaza, eyeless, come -- with long hair -- to me and bring thy jawbone so useful. Bruce Lee where art thou, Jackie Chan I need thy skinny justice. Will I not fling peanuts? (I will fling peanuts.) Will I not howl to scare them? (I will so howl.) But what shall I say? I will say Who had a slapstickety mama? (Yardstick cracking whappety mama.) Who loves the pie of his guru? (Thrown foam pie of the guru.) What puce wing on the side of the train belongs to the insect so pretty? (Fish in clear water hit by foam pie). No I am not wroth with the rattlebrained Dippy doRookie nor his sidekick either, Brenda Floribunda the excessive secretary. Is it really my opinion there is something fat and abominable banging around in the fata morgana of our souls? Yappy of dogs behind me. I put the yappy of dogs behind me. You think I would not smote him Dippy I would smote him yip. I would smote him with my heart, buh: big flappering heartbag of coins right in his facety, legs smoking of Dippety collapsing like an cheap exchequer table it's true. puh. Remove his stapes? Abrade his pockmarks? Stomp on lungs? Crack like chicken? I am not wroth with that intestinal obstruction Dippy the Cop causing colic vomiting and constipation no. I am not wroth with that breach of decency Brenda the Clerk causing pulling of the skin no. But I would smote them for a nickel. Smack them like a spondee. Their groans will ha-ha among the trumpets, fuh, O Tippety-lumpus!