Nothing's realistic, especially reality,
so as the winged pig pokes its head out
of the corrugated cardboard crate you keep it in
and takes a look around at the junked vans
by the side of the junked river
and asks in its winsome yet whining way
how come there ain't no sunshine since you been gone baby
the assumption is that words of wisdom may yet fall
out of the tree we planted a hundred years ago
but what worries me is the way in which
nothing seems to be quite as it used to be.
For example,

in the good old days a dreadful monster called Beowulf lived in the sea
and came up out of the sea and ate everybody it bumped into at the mall
until Robin Hood came along and gave it some chewing gum and it choked
because it wasn't used to chewing it always simply swallowed whole

and in other old days when men wore armour to keep brains and balls safe
chain mail was delivered twice a day but just once on Sundays
they cut down endless mountains to build those impregnable aqueducts
and invented the gentle art of jousting because chess is rather boring

then in yet another history time when Queen George the Innumerable
ruled over United Britain in the time of The Age Of Irrationality
the theatre such as it was was full of sex and violence and popcorn
and it wasn't safe to go out on the street either before or after dark

and there are endless examples like these, demonstrating how
things changed between the time we decided which boat to catch
and when we drove out to the harbour in our donkey cart.
And I know what you're thinking. I know what you're going to say.






That I broke the solemn oath sworn upon the sacred stone so long ago.
That I abandoned you to the Fates.
That when you woke up this morning the Bird of Bounty
I brought home yesterday evening had turned into an oaken chest
within which ancient documents proved I was not of an old family
but only recently cobbled together out of bits of string, wire
and old batteries. Eyes of glass from broken bottles.

Come on. Catch up.
You can find my autobiography online if you look hard enough.
And history is written by the people who win.
Who's writing this?