Kicking out the front teeth of the criminal the Bluebird gave up on the day and started out to have a good time with the butterflies.  Evening was coming.  Robin eggs, blue and broken, lay all around the bedroom, never to be born.  No one was in the mood for an omelet, though everyone was hungry.  Little secrets, like this one, led to the unexpected slaughter of the innocent.  The paparazzi stood about no wiser, but all the hungrier.

The Bluebird, though, that's a different story.  He had acted his age and flown south, too old for the coop.  Pretty possy, Bluebird with the butterflies in tow.  Scotland Yard and the FBI could never come as close to a conclusion at the scene of the crime as Bluebird and the butterfly bunch could.  By the time they got in the general vicinity Bluebird and the butterflies had already fluttered to fame in the old Oscar Wilde infamous way.

"Chirp, chirp" went Bluebird all talkative.

I was saying; "right, right, right" as the butterflies danced about on my unwashed skull. They had left behind the soft caterpillar killing manners of their youths.  Silkworm women had been strangled in their sight.  Back then they had been a frightening lot and though they were all now Pretty Boy Floyd faced they were just as unnerving as ever before.

I played with the criminal's busted out teeth that we had taken while the Bluebird on my shoulder pecked at my eyes.  I had forgotten to bring my sunglasses.

"God damn, Cock Robin is going to give it to the misses when he sees that all of the chickies are gone," I sputtered out.  I was going down the Tiresias line with my eyes being gouged out.  "Get me to Delphi before the CIA and MI5 are called in."

"La, la, la" someone said.  I think it was Dr. Faustus.  He was the king of the comedians down at the coroner's office.  He was always good at cleaning the bones.

The criminal was buried gap toothed in the afternoon while we went off to wait for the sunset.  J. Edgar Hoover's dream was going to call the case closed until he found one of Bluebird's feathers in the robin's nest serving no pillow purpose.

The point of this tale is that if you think that all that you drop is the guano when you're on the quick blow, you're slow to the karma punch which is cruel in its kinky attire.  Bluebird got a bullet to his head which was blown clean off once he was caught and the cadaver got his chompers back to keep him company in the ground.