Tales From an Iggernant Hillbilly
by
Robert Edward Lee Dalton
The Artist and the Still
Part II
With apprehensive creep, he crept through halloweenish halls,
Blunderbuss beshouldered, and boomerang at call.
The creak of olden boards of floor released by rusting spikes
Betold of shadowed figures that lurked beyond the lights.
The lamp he carried flickered, and the shadows threatened doom
As he snuck beyond the hallway to another ghostly room.
When he moved, the skulking shadows slyly tried to gain his rear,
But he'd turn a timely spin and then, he'd watch them disappear.
Behind a sagging staircase, a portal he espied,
With a creaking door that opened to a passage less than wide
And a hiss of new found freedom from a long imprisoned breeze
Was borne upon a fetid breath that passed him with a wheeze.
What's this? His nose detected too, an alcoholic smell.
Some drunkard must have died here, or staggered out of hell.
Would he meet a tipsy spirit within those dismal depths?
A thousand maybes clawed his mind from 'neath some sagging steps.
On the first step he imagined a pallid, drunken vampire
Flapping wings like those of bats above an evening campfire.
The second step beset his mind with scenes of cockeyed zombies
With rotting flesh and horrid names--Gadzooks and Abercrombies.
The third step brought him ghastly scenes of intoxicated ghouls
Who'd chased their gorge with whiskey, like so many mortal fools.
The fourth unleashed a vision of inebriated gremlins
That put his pulse in double-time and set his hands to tremblin'.
The fifth step fulminated with the sight of pie-eyed phantoms
Of every size imaginable, gargantuan down to bantam.
On the sixth his reason shuddered, teetered in its seat,
And pulled a mental shade before his mind to gain retreat.
The seventh step he ventured with an awe-begotten frown,
But the gaunt grimace was wasted, for the eighth was moldy ground.
He stood within a heavy purple atmosphere of must
And watched a mangy rat-thing scurry past him in disgust.
But to his left, beyond a wall of ancient, mossy stone,
A thing he'd not expected--instead of gore and bone
A gentle firelight twinkled through a cracked colonial door.
Spirits do not warm themselves... It must be something more.
He crept along the fetid wall till he gained a good position,
Then, with a shove, from dark to light he made a swift transition.
His eyes beheld the strangest sight, the likes he'd never seen,
A metallic monster--alien--'twas some bizarre machine.
But no, 'twas no machine. It had no moving parts.
The tank, the coils, most certainly... 'twas a modern work of art.
Of course! Of course! An artist's ply! A metallurgic work!
How could he not recognize... He straightened with a jerk.
Curses! Curses! Someone had premeditated him
And sought the same inspired retreat within this goblin's den.
The creepy caitiff had aspired the same great feat as he...
To create a masterpiece induced by spectral fantasy.
Such beauty done was certainly one of great creative unction.
Why, the artist had outdone himself, the piece performed a function.
The flickering fire gave emphasis to the gurgling, cone-topped tank,
And the firkin 'neath the copper work lent a brilliant touch of swank.
This genius had depicted the nectar of the Gods
By the tiny droplets oozing from the curly copper rods.
Though the essence of the nectar was imperfect, it would seem;
It reeked of alcohol, but then, one can't have everything.
And yet, perhaps the taste was such as that described in myth.
He scanned the scene for something he could use to taste it with.
There... a tiny teacup, that would certainly do
To dip into the lucid pool of Olympus' sparkling brew.
He dipped a cup, sniffed it well, then touched it to his lips,
And with the distant gaze of a connoisseur he tippled two more sips.
Not bad, he thought, rather tasty, a tickle in the tummy.
He'd have another little cup, that first was somewhat yummy.
Ah yes, this representative of the nectar of the gods
Was quite effective even though the smell was rather odd.
And the effervescent tingle that it gently lent inside
Was just the thing he needed to ebb his nervous tide.
But then a thought caressed his mind, a way to gain revenge
For the underhanded means by which his nemesis had infringed
Upon his own idea to portray a spectral scene:
He'd retrieve his paraphernalia, and he'd paint this stupid thing.
What a shock that artful thief would suffer when he found
The image of his masterpiece already shown around
In the form of a marvelous painting in the galleries of art.
'Twas an excellent way for Sam to stay the "horse before the cart".
So he crept back up the stairway, through the halls of danken gloom,
Collected the equipment from his great creation room,
Carried it back to the little nook where the metal monster sat,
Drew a cup of nectar, and became a copycat.
Angle, angle, that's the thing. Sam drank another brew,
Then thumbed his hands together to crop an artist's view.
He'd show that sneaky so-and-so he couldn't hoodwink him,
And he spread a rainbowed pallet, and proceeded to begin.
With the speed of learned deftness his nimble fingers plied
The pigment to the canvas as the brush began to glide
An outline of the body of the huge metallic tank.
Sam dipped another nectar, which, with a gulp, he drank.
What's this? A line is crooked that should have come out straight.
Ah well, 'twas just excitement that caused the slight mistake.
But another cup of nectar would impart a soothing balm
And bring his hand within command to keep his brushes calm.
But the border of the outline, intended to be sharp,
Was as fuzzy as an "E" string vibrating on a harp.
Whups! The monster's moving! Sam rubbed his tiring eyes,
Then looked again... It's true, he thought, the silly thing's alive!
He'd have to paint it quicker, before it got away!
He swashed the paint on faster as the thing began to sway.
He was seeing things!... Having dreams!... His mind was taking fits.
He frantically gulped another brew to fortify his wits.
Oh no! The thing's contagious, for now the canvas moves!
Some dirty spook within this nook was trying to make him lose
His patience and desert his quest for gaining sweet revenge
By plunging all the room into a ghostly, drunken binge.
He swore he'd paint that stupid thing, and he tried to stroke the pad
But first he'd hit, and then he'd miss, and Sam was getting mad!
He'd never tried to chase a moving canvas down before,
But he swung a lick at every chance and fought it to the door.
He kicked the easel in the shin, and tried to grab its throat,
But the room was rocking wildly, like a storm-tossed wooden boat.
Now, filled with rage, Sam swore he'd get some paint upon that pad,
And he took a tube in either hand and squeezed with all he had.
Then he grabbed the loaded pallet, and with a cross-eyed aim,
He flung it at the canvas, which it hit with a spluttering "bang".
No spook would make a fool of him, no specter spoil his quest,
And he seized his trusty boomerang, which, with crucifix was blessed,
Piled it high with pigment, assumed a pitcher's stance,
And flung it aflight with all his might to where the easel danced.
Colors, colors everywhere! A rainbow in a room!
He was the only artist ever to beautify pure gloom.
There was pigment on the ceiling and paint upon the floor,
Oily paint on every wall, and paint upon the door.
Then Sam lost his patience and stumbled t'ward the gun.
He'd send that spook to a spooken grave before this night was done.
As fast as he could fire the gun, the silver bullets flew.
The tank, he ventilated, and the coil he shot in two.
He blew the lock right off the door, which violently opened wide.
Aha! The spook was running! Sam wildly charged outside.
He fired at every shadow that was not within the norm,
Then he spied the ghoulish creature--the thing had taken form.
'Twas a long, greenish monster with a great shaggy head,
And he peppered it with silver slugs till certain it was dead.
Then another shadow caught his eye fleeing through the brush,
And he cocked the gun and charged it with a wildly weaving rush.
On and on headlong he ran, till the cracking of the gun
Faded in the distance, and the gory deed was done.
With the coming of the dawn, all the folks of Reason's End
Came forth to find the cause of the fearsome, noisy din
That had kept them all from sleeping through the long, restless night,
And were overcome with wonder at such a gruesome sight.
A mess like none they'd ever seen was in their "haunted" house;
An upper room bespecked with paint, and a lower purely soused.
A hundred eyes, from sad surprise, with tears began to fill
When they saw the riddled ruins of their only moonshine still.
But the strangest sight of all was that which stood beyond the fence:
A weeping willow shot to bits, and all the townsfolk winced
When they found a long, bullet-riddled, greenish limousine
With tires shot flat and glasses smashed and bleeding gasoline.
Knowing naught of the driver's fate, they took the license number
And traced down all Sam's city friends, who too, began to wonder.
So they came out from the city and surveyed the hopeless scene,
And gathered such as they could find of all Sam's worldly things.
These, of course, included four paintings they had found,
Three of which were lovely, but one was most profound.
This fourth they put on display in a famous gallery hall.
'Twas the greatest abstract masterpiece to ever grace a wall.
The other three gained honor too, but not the likes of this.
The critics raved that any man could paint such abstract bliss.
The color combinations were unknown to modern art,
And the mode of application was the truly mystic part.
No one was ever able to copy this great feat.
Though thousands tried, their efforts died in the strangle of defeat.
The thing remained a mystery and won worldwide acclaim,
And Sam received (posthumously) his final claim to fame.
For he was never heard from in this mundane realm again,
Though many searched the mountains that shelter Reason's End.
And the haunted house wherein his masterpiece had met its birth
Was lost when someone fired the still, and blew it off the earth.
Shucks!
With apprehensive creep, he crept through halloweenish halls,
Blunderbuss beshouldered, and boomerang at call.
The creak of olden boards of floor released by rusting spikes
Betold of shadowed figures that lurked beyond the lights.
The lamp he carried flickered, and the shadows threatened doom
As he snuck beyond the hallway to another ghostly room.
When he moved, the skulking shadows slyly tried to gain his rear,
But he'd turn a timely spin and then, he'd watch them disappear.
Behind a sagging staircase, a portal he espied,
With a creaking door that opened to a passage less than wide
And a hiss of new found freedom from a long imprisoned breeze
Was borne upon a fetid breath that passed him with a wheeze.
What's this? His nose detected too, an alcoholic smell.
Some drunkard must have died here, or staggered out of hell.
Would he meet a tipsy spirit within those dismal depths?
A thousand maybes clawed his mind from 'neath some sagging steps.
On the first step he imagined a pallid, drunken vampire
Flapping wings like those of bats above an evening campfire.
The second step beset his mind with scenes of cockeyed zombies
With rotting flesh and horrid names--Gadzooks and Abercrombies.
The third step brought him ghastly scenes of intoxicated ghouls
Who'd chased their gorge with whiskey, like so many mortal fools.
The fourth unleashed a vision of inebriated gremlins
That put his pulse in double-time and set his hands to tremblin'.
The fifth step fulminated with the sight of pie-eyed phantoms
Of every size imaginable, gargantuan down to bantam.
On the sixth his reason shuddered, teetered in its seat,
And pulled a mental shade before his mind to gain retreat.
The seventh step he ventured with an awe-begotten frown,
But the gaunt grimace was wasted, for the eighth was moldy ground.
He stood within a heavy purple atmosphere of must
And watched a mangy rat-thing scurry past him in disgust.
But to his left, beyond a wall of ancient, mossy stone,
A thing he'd not expected--instead of gore and bone
A gentle firelight twinkled through a cracked colonial door.
Spirits do not warm themselves... It must be something more.
He crept along the fetid wall till he gained a good position,
Then, with a shove, from dark to light he made a swift transition.
His eyes beheld the strangest sight, the likes he'd never seen,
A metallic monster--alien--'twas some bizarre machine.
But no, 'twas no machine. It had no moving parts.
The tank, the coils, most certainly... 'twas a modern work of art.
Of course! Of course! An artist's ply! A metallurgic work!
How could he not recognize... He straightened with a jerk.
Curses! Curses! Someone had premeditated him
And sought the same inspired retreat within this goblin's den.
The creepy caitiff had aspired the same great feat as he...
To create a masterpiece induced by spectral fantasy.
Such beauty done was certainly one of great creative unction.
Why, the artist had outdone himself, the piece performed a function.
The flickering fire gave emphasis to the gurgling, cone-topped tank,
And the firkin 'neath the copper work lent a brilliant touch of swank.
This genius had depicted the nectar of the Gods
By the tiny droplets oozing from the curly copper rods.
Though the essence of the nectar was imperfect, it would seem;
It reeked of alcohol, but then, one can't have everything.
And yet, perhaps the taste was such as that described in myth.
He scanned the scene for something he could use to taste it with.
There... a tiny teacup, that would certainly do
To dip into the lucid pool of Olympus' sparkling brew.
He dipped a cup, sniffed it well, then touched it to his lips,
And with the distant gaze of a connoisseur he tippled two more sips.
Not bad, he thought, rather tasty, a tickle in the tummy.
He'd have another little cup, that first was somewhat yummy.
Ah yes, this representative of the nectar of the gods
Was quite effective even though the smell was rather odd.
And the effervescent tingle that it gently lent inside
Was just the thing he needed to ebb his nervous tide.
But then a thought caressed his mind, a way to gain revenge
For the underhanded means by which his nemesis had infringed
Upon his own idea to portray a spectral scene:
He'd retrieve his paraphernalia, and he'd paint this stupid thing.
What a shock that artful thief would suffer when he found
The image of his masterpiece already shown around
In the form of a marvelous painting in the galleries of art.
'Twas an excellent way for Sam to stay the "horse before the cart".
So he crept back up the stairway, through the halls of danken gloom,
Collected the equipment from his great creation room,
Carried it back to the little nook where the metal monster sat,
Drew a cup of nectar, and became a copycat.
Angle, angle, that's the thing. Sam drank another brew,
Then thumbed his hands together to crop an artist's view.
He'd show that sneaky so-and-so he couldn't hoodwink him,
And he spread a rainbowed pallet, and proceeded to begin.
With the speed of learned deftness his nimble fingers plied
The pigment to the canvas as the brush began to glide
An outline of the body of the huge metallic tank.
Sam dipped another nectar, which, with a gulp, he drank.
What's this? A line is crooked that should have come out straight.
Ah well, 'twas just excitement that caused the slight mistake.
But another cup of nectar would impart a soothing balm
And bring his hand within command to keep his brushes calm.
But the border of the outline, intended to be sharp,
Was as fuzzy as an "E" string vibrating on a harp.
Whups! The monster's moving! Sam rubbed his tiring eyes,
Then looked again... It's true, he thought, the silly thing's alive!
He'd have to paint it quicker, before it got away!
He swashed the paint on faster as the thing began to sway.
He was seeing things!... Having dreams!... His mind was taking fits.
He frantically gulped another brew to fortify his wits.
Oh no! The thing's contagious, for now the canvas moves!
Some dirty spook within this nook was trying to make him lose
His patience and desert his quest for gaining sweet revenge
By plunging all the room into a ghostly, drunken binge.
He swore he'd paint that stupid thing, and he tried to stroke the pad
But first he'd hit, and then he'd miss, and Sam was getting mad!
He'd never tried to chase a moving canvas down before,
But he swung a lick at every chance and fought it to the door.
He kicked the easel in the shin, and tried to grab its throat,
But the room was rocking wildly, like a storm-tossed wooden boat.
Now, filled with rage, Sam swore he'd get some paint upon that pad,
And he took a tube in either hand and squeezed with all he had.
Then he grabbed the loaded pallet, and with a cross-eyed aim,
He flung it at the canvas, which it hit with a spluttering "bang".
No spook would make a fool of him, no specter spoil his quest,
And he seized his trusty boomerang, which, with crucifix was blessed,
Piled it high with pigment, assumed a pitcher's stance,
And flung it aflight with all his might to where the easel danced.
Colors, colors everywhere! A rainbow in a room!
He was the only artist ever to beautify pure gloom.
There was pigment on the ceiling and paint upon the floor,
Oily paint on every wall, and paint upon the door.
Then Sam lost his patience and stumbled t'ward the gun.
He'd send that spook to a spooken grave before this night was done.
As fast as he could fire the gun, the silver bullets flew.
The tank, he ventilated, and the coil he shot in two.
He blew the lock right off the door, which violently opened wide.
Aha! The spook was running! Sam wildly charged outside.
He fired at every shadow that was not within the norm,
Then he spied the ghoulish creature--the thing had taken form.
'Twas a long, greenish monster with a great shaggy head,
And he peppered it with silver slugs till certain it was dead.
Then another shadow caught his eye fleeing through the brush,
And he cocked the gun and charged it with a wildly weaving rush.
On and on headlong he ran, till the cracking of the gun
Faded in the distance, and the gory deed was done.
With the coming of the dawn, all the folks of Reason's End
Came forth to find the cause of the fearsome, noisy din
That had kept them all from sleeping through the long, restless night,
And were overcome with wonder at such a gruesome sight.
A mess like none they'd ever seen was in their "haunted" house;
An upper room bespecked with paint, and a lower purely soused.
A hundred eyes, from sad surprise, with tears began to fill
When they saw the riddled ruins of their only moonshine still.
But the strangest sight of all was that which stood beyond the fence:
A weeping willow shot to bits, and all the townsfolk winced
When they found a long, bullet-riddled, greenish limousine
With tires shot flat and glasses smashed and bleeding gasoline.
Knowing naught of the driver's fate, they took the license number
And traced down all Sam's city friends, who too, began to wonder.
So they came out from the city and surveyed the hopeless scene,
And gathered such as they could find of all Sam's worldly things.
These, of course, included four paintings they had found,
Three of which were lovely, but one was most profound.
This fourth they put on display in a famous gallery hall.
'Twas the greatest abstract masterpiece to ever grace a wall.
The other three gained honor too, but not the likes of this.
The critics raved that any man could paint such abstract bliss.
The color combinations were unknown to modern art,
And the mode of application was the truly mystic part.
No one was ever able to copy this great feat.
Though thousands tried, their efforts died in the strangle of defeat.
The thing remained a mystery and won worldwide acclaim,
And Sam received (posthumously) his final claim to fame.
For he was never heard from in this mundane realm again,
Though many searched the mountains that shelter Reason's End.
And the haunted house wherein his masterpiece had met its birth
Was lost when someone fired the still, and blew it off the earth.
Shucks!
