The summer grass, it's all that's left of

The summer grass, it's all that's left of an old warriors dreams. The field of battle, Daisy's backporch swing. Still there, but Daisy's gone, and what I got? Just a fading dream

rolling into a nightmare, the ones that jolt me up out of my bed and send me out to those fields, where I try to get some semblance of a hold on my sanity. Hard for an old warrior.

Once sinewy with muscle, I had fallen into the usual malaise and subsequent marshmallowness of age. But hell with that. Too long had I fought these dark entities. I was not about t

o sack Constantinople with a flabby belly. I looked like what centuries from now would go by the name of Obelix. For now it was safe to say my name wan't yet in the Necronomicon. I

decided to rectify this by purchasing a secondhand copy of the Necronomicon for a Yuletide gift (this was before Christmas was invented) and signed my name on the inside cover.

peppered the line where my signature had been. "You are released from the Dead," he said, and the world around me seemed to drop as I rose. Suddenly I was back at my job at a 7-11

in the suburbs of Springfield. I must've been in a daze because there was a line of customers and the one at the front said loudly "LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE HAS A CASE OF THE MONDAYS". I

just looked at him blankly. It was Thursday. What the heck? Monday was like several days ago. Geez. So I

picked up my shovel and joined the chain gang. Paul Newman was one of the gang and spoke some BS about “failure to conjugate,” but I saw nothing there related to verbs whatsoever.