Jim-Jim

The flat faced man walked down the road.
Tucked safely under a large black bowler hat,
he walked slowly, very slowly and very carefully,
picking his way through nine long blocks of scattered ice.
It seemed that kind of a day;
one of those days when, rolling in the road,
it was difficult to avoid the conclusion of cars.
Their presence drove one to imitation.
"And so," thought the flat faced man, "my name is Jim-Jim."
Our age has that quality
of senseless duplication, replication, and recycliation.
And so I must write what it was that Jim-Jim thought
on that kind of a day when, rolling in the road,
it was difficult to avoid the conclusion of cars.
Their presence drove one to imitation.
Writing without visible means of support,
the guy wires removed and swinging by the side,
wicked looking and sharp.

Jimmy-boy sways to the hum of the machine,
the roar of the radio,
and that inner whim over his door.
Reduplication -- duplicating over and over again,
the same text to glass, to glass, to glass,
another, another, another;
the spine breaks and brings out Emerson for the hundredth time."
"Pull those leaves back, Ralph, and keep off the glass."
And it is said that a clean copy has its value,
processional information for the fore world of no regrets,
looking backward nevermore for the heavenly bell in me raving
'bout cats and dogs and things and death.
Writing out visible means of support.
"Oh, false, false era, Sir, she done it."
Wrote out visible means, without permission's age.

All right! Who moved the wind? Bring back the icy road!