Tibet and the Icecream Scientists

You should take a break, put down those clothes you’ve been carrying and kick up your feet. Put the pen to the page, who will take you to your dead sage? No salvation Tibet. “Take me to my dead Christ.” Who do you think you are, carried from shore to shore? We will bury you under the sand, me and Uncle Fester that is. And still nobody believed us. We stood out there in the fading sun, “X” marked in the sand where your body could be found, pointing, trying to tell the beach people, “David Tibet is buried right here.” They couldn’t relate to your ego. They didn’t care. At least we left you a shovel to dig your way out if need be. How’s he s’poseda get it from under the ground? Oh yeah... oh well, onward we go, leaving you where you have always lived or to climb or to climb out and sulk in a hotel. I’m going back to San Francisco to have a sup of coffee. Shovels taste good with icecream. Dirt can get in the ink a little and it’s still okay. But dirt in icecream? Let’s test it out. So the scientists get out their beakers and Bunsen burners (white lab coats already on, mix the dirt from the shovels in with the icecream, heat it to a nice sludgy solution. They let the frosh, Martin McVeinmangler, handle it from here. He fills the syringe with the solution, finds the first sap laid out on the table, the word “ready” across his forehead, and injects him with the stuff. The audience is holding its breath, but he gets the needle in right the first time. What happens, what happens! The subject dies, that’s what happens muther fucker. So shovels may taste good with icecream, but you damn best keep em clean