The Milk of Paradise

“Man is the measure of all things.”
—Protogoras


referendum, the glorious cattle! The rising sun, bright and golden, casts its rays down upon the earth—for, vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What profit has a man from all his labor in which he toils under the sun? Caverns measureless to man—wherein, the deranged owner of the cattle, forthwith, comes from the hillside, up the slopes of grass, and enters the fields. Moo! go the cows as they squabble and soak in the burning rays; one generation passes, and another comes—but the earth abides forever! The gossamer of silky white; the Rorschach blotches of black squirming as they move! lithe and muscled, the hotness of the torch passes—and wherein, the unutterable cry of Moo! sounds forth.
         A patchwork of silky white and Rorschach: pink squares digging in the multitude of mud; the cloven feet prodding through the tulgey dirt. The pit of destiny, the mud, the silk fur clear! In Xanadu, Kubla Khan built a pleasure-dome with caves of ice—allusion of the darkness of Pluto’s monarchy, the crypts of Tartarus, as Sisyphus rolls the boulder up the slope; the hammers of the Cyclopes sounding from the echoing depths: the measureless caverns! The pleasure-dome, enfolding sunny spots of green ’round the thresher’s flail; the sound of a lawnmower in the distance—the cry of Moo!, a symphony. And ’mid this tumult, the cattle—population mostly female; five-hundred-twelve bulls guarded the fence, the sacred yard!
         The filth—grotesque, ugly, putrid! In the plot of Xanadu, the sacred city, the feces spread a pestilence. The smell: rotting corpses, rotten eggs, skunk glands, sweaty socks, moldy cheese, sour milk, urine, a septic tank, the putridness of it all! The dung, full of power, spread far and wide—the feces of the cattle alive and well, spreading awful diseases and a nightmarish smell from Hades. The prized cattle seemed healthy. Infinite, seemingly divine, they gave birth to calves and ne’er miscarried—by God, the sacred cows! Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! The smell—the brown fog—suffocates the land! Moooooooooooooooo! Stomp! Stomp! Vroom! Calloh-Callay! The noisome stench, the infinite babies, the thresher, the sun; the valley pasture covered in cattle-dung. The sheepfold open: sheep dropping deader than doornails from the smell! Existence of water? No parking—fire zone. Clean the septic tank, you arrogant clown!
         ’Twas the fifth day—cleanse the stables, the cattle-yard, the sheepfold; ’twas brillig, and the owner of Xanadu hadn’t a care for the toil of cleansing the corruption of his yard! He himself wasn’t cleansed, nonetheless, he prided his cattle-yard, for they were good cows, fair and true. No living creature in the Kingdom of Man dared to walk through the brown-coated grass, in fear of disease. Immortality stamped with a divine signature—the smell ne’er suffocated the Animalia. Peter Snook hadn’t a care to clean the pasture with wheelbarrows of the fecal matter—a puzzle; a riddle; a contest! Whomever shall clean my yard, a tithe of the cattle will be a prize. Neigh! goes the horse, stomping its shoes in the placid stable. Neigh-neigh-neigh! The orchestra of neighs, the bleating—music of the spheres! So deep in the ferocious dung, no ploughing for grain! Starvation! Help—I need somebody! The smell! Take my offer—corrupt Peter Snook, what ails thee?
         Credulous, a pleasant passer-by: I can help thee, sir, with thy problem. Expert at the molecular mixture of two hydrogen and one oxygen—the source of life. Will work for nothing, haphazardly, for I could use thy cattle for my fields. The Scrooge of Xanadu, what ails thee? Laziness yields to sloth, a sin of the Lord! You hadn’t been cleansed yourself as I have: for you haven’t been recognized by the Supreme One, and thus are being punished. What ails thee? Preach Ecclesiastes, then transform into a hypocrite. Molière’s Tartuffe. I am a lazy stable-keeper/What ails me? Why, I am a sleeper! Oh? Forfeit thy keys to Xanadu, Peter Snook, and I shall cleanse thee of corruption. Oft! Cleanse thee? Oh, my dear, dear man: only the Supreme One may cleanse those who have dung filled to their ears. The poem of Coleridge is immortal, the haunting words: whilst I cleanse thyself and thy stables, offer thee a bargain. Gamblers are but corrupted souls as well.

Hyperbole—the windy rhetoric;
German dictator, the fiery Frederick.

         Couplets I sing as I cleanse the Stables of Peter Snook. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream! Merrily-merrily-merrily-merrily, life is but a dream! Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle. It’s a small world after all. All around the mulberry bush. Ring-a-ring-a roses—a pocket-full of posies—achoo! achoo! We all fall down! Whistle while you work. Call the water gods, so that they may clean thy corrupt soul! Oh, how I desire to rid this smell! Hits the nostrils, stings them. The brown, suffocating fog. Splash! Splash! goes the water—the dung dies, forever lost as the cattle cry Moo. Humping—the act of life-making go the cows. Natural, perhaps. The horses rear forward. The sheep bleat. All are soaked because of me. Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.
         An ocean of corruption washed away. Almost cleaned. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies under the light of the sun—water nymphs flirting with men of yore; sheep and pigs, donkeys and dogs, floating in the water! A flood! The new Noah. Peter Snook, here are thy keys to Xanadu. The brown filth is washed away, as I had promised. The River Ocean did its dirty work. Pay me my prize. Striking a bargain warrants your soul. But are you a devil? Hast thou deceived thee? Oh don’t be silly Mr. Snook. Scrooge thou art: you, sir, are still covered in filth.
         No deal—thy cattle are prized. Oh? Thou hast sold thy soul to the Devil! But I am an honest man—I followed the goat, sir. Baa! Baa! The three billy-goats gruff. Who’s that trip-trapping upon my bridge? Hark! The herald angels sing! Have I joined the likes of Tom Walker and Ebenezer Scrooge? My poor fellow, the Devil isn’t here! Just be kind to thy neighbors and hand over thy prize. I finished the task before noontide, when evening begins, and thus, I deserve my warranty. Ah! but thou art unsure of my ways. Children were lawyers once—and don’t lawyers have corrupted souls? Politicians are the Devil’s soldiers. Ah—arbitration. The Herculean passer-by; relative of Samson? Oh don’t bother. I’ll just throw the bargain to the courts.
         Herein is how thy cattle-yard hast been baptized:
         Persons three said thus: “breach the wall of the yard in two places. Next, divert two hoses, connect them, so that the water could gush out like two rivers. Finish the task by cleansing the valley and surrounding pasture.” Followed orders. Now, good Peter Snook, where is thy payment? Oh—in the courts, as yourself suggested

Confession on the pew,
The poop is cleaned—phew!

         But are you cleansed? The lawyers gather ’round. Sit on the pulpit. Judge bangs the hammer. Plaintiff vs. Defendant. Subpoenaed: I’ve done my part, Sir Judge, and he won’t pay me. Why is this so? Testified the truth, the workers of Xanadu. He’s corrupt. A corrupt bargain hast taken place: the silver-haired, crooked-nosed Peter Snook and the white-haired, balding, eloquent Herculean Samson. Andrew Jackson vs. John Quincy Adams. Rutherford B. Hayes vs. William A. Wheeler. George W. Bush vs. Al Gore. Does it e’er end? Corrupt politics! Cleanse thy promises, and thy stables won’t be covered in putrid filth.
         Judge’s ruling in favor of the Defendant. Peter Snook: thou art banished from thy cattle-yard, thy horrid boy! Quit the jest! Go home! Banished forever! Poor, poor me. “Thus it is, ye cookie crumbles,” saith Miles Standish.
         Ebb, the languish filth—ebbed down the lifeless river, into the measureless cave, for he on cantaloupe hath fed, and drank the water clearer; and he, in future’s mend, shall move to Switzerland.