I dreamed last night of a fleet of UFOs
filling the sky, not to invade but to beam
of all things, the spirit of Charlie Chaplin down.
A world of little tramps, of little guys
sticking it to the man; of roller-skating
within an inch of disaster; of boiled spuds
frolicking on forks; of torn and tarnished tuxedos;
and dictators scalded with sparkling disdain.
And I woke, and ambled pigeon-toed downstairs.
