Elks In Snow

Ah, there was snow, so much snow, snow falling without pause, until the world was white, and cold, so very cold, we shivered in our hovels. And there were elks in the snow, massive, and elegant, and stamping their hooves. That is what elks do, in snow, they stamp their hooves. See them, nostrils flared, stamping their hooves in the snow. See them from your hovel, where you are shivering. Your chromosomes are anomalous, and your head is misshapen, and you have no hat, and you wish you had a hat, you have pored over catalogues of hats, yet never had the cash to buy a hat, not even the cheapest of hats, there are god knows some hats so cheap it is a shame to put one on your misshapen head, a public shame, for seeing the cheap hat atop your misshapen head there will be many an urchin and a ragamuffin who will delve deep into their store of abusive words and spout them at you, safe in the knowledge that you will not retaliate, for they know you for a milksop, a milquetoast, a man of misshapen head and of cheap hat who would not dare to clap them around the ears, even if, after their cruel words, they picked up pebbles, pebbles from the snow, and threw the pebbles at you, hitting you on the arms and on the legs and on the torso and on the cheap hat you wore on your misshapen head, your head, your head, your head head head head head, that misshapen head you have on top of your neck, a head you can’t change, can’t swap, swap for another, another more shapely head, a head you might prefer, a majestic, imperial head, one deserving of awe from the proletariat, a head to be bowed down to, a head copied thousands, if nor millions of times, in niello, on medals, your head, yes, your head, but it will never be your head, because your head is misshapen, and you do not even have a hat to put upon it, not even the cheapest hat, from a discount hatters, no, all you have is your bare misshapen head, resting upon an uncravatted neck, a head that will never be bowed down to nor nielloed in medals, a head misshapen and bearing a bouffant that invites ridicule from stylish trendies, trendies who are cosy in their cabins, somewhere else, somewhere far away, remote, remote, somewhere other than your hovel, in the snow, where you skulk, while elks flare their nostrils, and stamp their hooves, as elks do, elegantly, in snow, from time to time, on Wednesdays, on Wednesday potato nights.

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