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Shark to tonic. . .
I gave a pocket knife to an old man so that he can tear apart his enemies; he swipes at the dark and the light.
If you sneak up on him slow, bellywise over old shoes, the orange light of empty pill bottles, crunch, you may take his knife.
He keeps it below his shriner's fez which never blows away because it's chin-strapped.
The old man may roll around in his sleep like a toppled trash can, but hold out your foot, sucka, and he'll stop rolling.
Then you lift up the fez and take that knife. Whistle; whistle to render inconspicuous the fez peeping. I said to whistle.
Watch out for his ankle pistol, jack!
He may awaken to the blur and semi-paralysis of hypnogogic spiderworks.
Find the sweet spot below the chin to sink him into tonic immobility.
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