More Holmes and Watson.

O Etesian winds, O
Stunted trees of Minorca,
Now, within the fungo house,
I, Watson, have found
Poor Holmes, half-grown
Into a Pomada tree, and
Whose tormented body, the
Gymnesiae serve unguiculate
Candles whose alimentarium
Is the soft and heinous
Breath of wiser memories.

Mantis move in a braided
Procession around and
Through the entrance portal's
Miniature walkway-braid
Which, like a tiny, turning
Causeway seems like something
Annoying to Holmes.

There is a big fungus pipe
Which stinks awfully, and I can
Still hear the terrified cries of
My good friend, now half
Lemon-man:

Los Brisotes! LLanos! Maussim! Moussim!
Cirri! Cirri! Harmattan!

SAHARAN PRAWN BALLOON!

Which was in fact, puerictitious..
I cut Holmes down, and out of the tangle
Of Lemon Pomada branches, and wrapped
Him in cinnamon bark Cindy Crawford style.
Soon, with the help of the gleefully dim
Gymnesiae, we had poor Holmes aboard the
SAHARAN PRAWN BALLOON, and were off to the

WEIRD THING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT.

The Fungo house deflated as we rose.
The Gymnesiae would now wear live shrimp
In their earlobes.