nothing beats a pair of shoes or tongue lashings as lips of fiery breath sears the dinner and bakes the plates which shift and makes the chorus sneeze askew and yet mother and father resemble nothing like the slope of our noses in bohemian poses poised in an oyster bar tell jokes, what a card, put it on my card, yeah, slap that plastic on the tray and give us your mark, hark, someone is calling, a chime , tell us a joke, two cardinal numbers walk into a bar, 1 and then 2, no second or first place, no one after the other, only 1 and 2 and a table where they sat with a deck of cards, tongue sandwiches, a box of wood matches, guitar picks, five dollar socks rolled down to the ankles.