The Waldorf Astoria Of Punxustawney
Punxutawney Phil, the clairvoyant critter, saw his shadow this morning on Gobbler's Knob, and now there will be six more weeks of winter. There is absolutely nothing anyone can do about it. I wrote a poem about Phil and winter when I was in fourth grade. When I was innocent and full of life. Before I was cursed with erections and desire for lusty women of all sorts. When my greatest and only love was my mother, and I feared the day she would die like the unholy fear Armageddon. It was the best poem that was ever written, but I lost it. I even drew Phil and the men in tuxedos who usher him from his hole. My beloved mother kept it in a scrapbook, but the scrapbook was lost after she died — a day that hit me in the mouth like Pearl Harbor. All my life I've been trying to remember that poem and to resuscitate my dead mother in words. I am in love with a woman named Annabelle Lee. I have never met her, and it is very likely she has never been born. Her name has been stuck in my m...
