Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo"

   Ela didn't mind Jiminy Cricket and all, a good bounce, yet lacking the pounce--who fears cats now?  And no, she wasn't into pussy; at the same time, didn't condemn an innocent lesbo, for that would not be proper.  Maybe she was having a crummy day because she got her buttocks slapped and gawked at by the strange assortment of so-called ethical men, some of which like to play with little boys--kinda creepy, nah.  Ela stepped on a stick bug, and she felt better about things.
    A medicine man once spoke about porno with her--naughty naughty.  She knew what was on his mind, yup.  Dirty things.  A humpathon--not with her, sicko.  Still, you have the vibrations of a dolphin song; moreover, the cage shaking of Heston's confusion over horseback scenery; plus, the fear induced by stupidity, not owning God or the gods, or any angel or fish person, or lizard man, or truck-driver with a cigar-cranking fixation--they are not to be monitored nastily.  God owns you, Bubba.  Even a holy vine knows and reveres the pure energy which doth maketh it sprout forth--plant kingdom wars.
   Ela whispered sweet things to the church bells, returning a hopeful hearken.  And a father she gave a damn about sparkled, for a mere second, making her smile all day and night, not even sleep, knowing Pa-Pa adored her originality, not to be worn by anyone else--or there inside her frigid Temple, losing their meaningless microbes. 
  She shifted foxways, feigned a limp; next, some little boy threw a half-eaten honey-bun in her direction.  She rather enjoyed it.  Yummy.