Let It Be Known:
That were you to crack through with an axe the knots of vines and roots interlaced, that so surround the heart of the King Of Bums, his cold gaze, turning into a pearl, would fall in your mouth and flizzard yer insides, making them need the warm drink of the tree. But its ambersap has been so crooly taken from it, scraped with hangnails of old hags and bottled oop. To go oot, in this hearsh waythur, not now, not now; sit doon as the vines and roots close ye in, they’ll thaw in spring; badmen with righteous eyes roam about under the moon, on top of the snow: peeping for you and your filthy ilk, waiting yes, waiting yes, get up to piss because it’s so cold and they snatch your green hand up from the hard crystalline waves, smack ye about and call ye names; haggle you by the ruff till the constable’s gaze gazes ye, “Aye. In the tank he goes.” Aye. In the tank you go. The tank is known as the anti-tree, or whatever else name you can call it that will stick: The Bum Tank or The Alcohole, whichever suits you. Stay there the night, the green on your hands and your nose wears off a bit, you forget the smell of the tree; wake up in the tank with a puddle of you with that hard pearl of The Bum King’s gaze left behind, left for the cleansweep to dispose in his bag.