On and on goes Littlejohn, a-rambling up the mountain.
He hates it. (I hate them both: the going on, and the rhyme!)
Littlejohn has little on, while he a-rambles up.
His thighs pursing sweat, his gaze swings from the dust and stone of the slope to the twitching back legs of the scrag-goat he’s chasing, of the goat that is leading him. Littlejohn imagines his soul soldered to the underside of a brass censer, pressed in amalgam with its fatted, ashy belly and condemned to feel its heat, to swing back and forth, smelling good forever or however long brass lasts.
2020-05-16 up that hill