What Happened to John

He’s now a vine, ever vying with the fence,
a recompense for having wronged, a lump
of blue begonias (oddly flumped), a clump
of mushrooms with a Latin name, lying dumped
where I shoved him down, hey-diddle-down,
diddle-down-day, and held him down-down,
the man on the moon and the flowers of May:
hi-diddle-dum, diddle-die-scum-scum,
and I slew him with a roughly-hewn machete,
laughed in glee, and threw a puff of blue confetti.

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