I see a little silhouetto of a man. Scaramouche,

I see a little silhouetto of a man. Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango? Thunderbolt and lightning.Very, very frightening me.

Peggy groaned. "Ugh! I hate Queen! I mean, I love Freddy Mercury and the /idea/ of Queen, but that song! No!" Her friends laughed. They loved teasing Peg. It had been a

tragedy when when the shark bit her right leg off last year. A terrible thing, but Peg's friends faithfully tried to keep her spirits up with music therapy. They tried Steely Dan

's potato salad. It was ok. It showed some inspiration, but it wasn't like fantastic kickass potato salad. No horse radish or anything. Peg thought about music therapy as a kind

of self inflicted torture of one's transcendent nature that these creatures, these songs, were being held in captivity, bound to the growing, sowing, and unknowing. Blind in all 3

eyes, but with a nose that could smell for a thousand miles, the jailer of songs could smell that a musician had just arrived in town. He put on his overcoat, and nothing else, and

went down to the docks where the musician had just set up his harmonica and amp. "No overcoats, no service," he said cheerfully. "No problem," said the jailer of songs.

We have these holey overcoats left over from the last flasher dancer play we busted on Broadway. The jailer of songs took a seat near the front row watching for Bette Midler.

Ms. Middler was wearing one the holey overcoats, but she looked lovely. The chandelier lights graced her powered cheeks like a soft lick from her lover