Dear Mr. the Rabmag: Last night I dreamt that I was in a green square in the city, where I saw a man with a dancing monkey. The monkey seemed almost mechanical, as if it could do nothing but dance in a tight circle, which it did to the accompaniment of music provided by a hidden orchestra. The man with it, however, was impeccably dressed, looking more like a senator or a judge than a street performer. Almost immediately he accosted me and began to insist that I take the dancing monkey as a gift. It would give me great satisfaction, he explained, and it would improve my standing in society. I told him I had no need of a dancing monkey, and indeed I began to see something vaguely sinister about the thing. But the more I protested, the more he insisted that I must have the dancing monkey, and moreover passers-by began to reinforce his insistence with their own, telling me that my life would be incomplete until I had the dancing monkey. By this time I felt certain, though I cannot tell why, that the people around me intended to gain some form of control over me by means of the dancing monkey; but though I refused to take it, they were not deterred, and forming an impenetrable ring around me, they began to dance in imitation of the monkey’s simple steps, all the while singing a song to the melody provided by the invisible orchestra:

You shall have fun
with the dancing monkey.
You’ll be the one
with the dancing monkey.
Second to none
with the dancing monkey.

Can’t you just see
What a hit you will be?

You shall be strong
with the dancing monkey.
You can’t go wrong
with the dancing monkey.
Please sing along
with the dancing-monkey song.

There were verses as well as this chorus, but this is all I can remember of it. After a bit of this I awoke, feeling greatly disturbed, as if I had learned something terribly important about my position in the world, although I could not specify exactly what. What do you think my dream means? —Sincerely, Albert J. Tamarin, Perry Hilltop.

Dear Sir: Monkeys are often a symbol in dreams, but, as you have not specified what species of monkey you dreamed of, it may be difficult to narrow down the symbolism. South American spider monkeys usually stand for riboflavin; the message, then, would be that the processed-food industry is attempting to poison you with toxic quantities of riboflavin in the guise of promoting your health. Capuchin monkeys, on the other hand, usually represent flood insurance, and you can see how this changes the interpretation. Dancing is often a dream metaphor for singing, and (contrariwise) singing for dancing; but since your dream includes both, we go around in a circle and come back where we started. It may be, however, that you were not dreaming at all, but merely experienced an event unusual enough to make you believe that you had dreamt it. Something very similar happened to Nergal-Sharezer the Rabmag, and he assures you that his dancing monkey has provided him with much amusement, and what is more has given him a comforting feeling of perfect satisfaction with the governing powers, which, though he cannot explain the reason for it, has contributed greatly to his peace of mind.

[In honor of the forthcoming second anniversary of Dr. Boli on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli will be reprinting a number of his own favorite articles from the past two years.]

Oh, you can search hither, and you can search thither,
And you can search over and under and through,
But no one knows whether, and no one knows whither
The Blue Knight has gone with his Mystic Kazoo.
Oh, whether or whither,
Or hither or thither—
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

In olden days (golden days), roughly and readily
Knights in bright armor all knew what to do;
And no knight did better than, slowly and steadily,
That magical Knight with his Mystic Kazoo.
Oh, roughly and readily,
Slowly and steadily,
Where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

Five nights in a row, as I paced on the ceiling,
Five knights in a row hummed along while he blew
A rare old Allegro with infinite feeling,
As only he could, on his Mystic Kazoo.
I still pace the ceiling,
But not with such feeling—
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

For five afternoons, while I danced on the shrubbery,
He blew forth his melodies, sacred and true;
Five knights backed him up with cow-bells and wash-tubbery,
But no other knight knew the Mystic Kazoo.
I’ve flattened the shrubbery,
Lost the wash-tubbery—
Where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

Five mornings, lost mornings, at dawn’s early rising,
I woke to the sound of a dairy-cow’s moo;
The cow seemed annoyed, which was hardly surprising:
Beside her the Knight blew his Mystic Kazoo.
Now there’s nothing surprising
At dawn’s early rising.
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

I hung from the floorboards all evening one morning,
Enchanted as melodies fluttered and flew;
Alas, had I known he was blowing a warning,
I’d have begged him to stay with his Mystic Kazoo!
I hung there all morning
And missed his plain warning—
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

And now knights are fewer, and nights are all longer,
And days have grown grayer, as days often do,
And summer grows weaker, and winter grows stronger,
And all for the lack of a Mystic Kazoo!
Spring weaker, fall stronger,
Days shorter, nights longer—
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

And we’ve looked up and down till we’re starting to blither;
We’ve checked Manitoba, Dubai, and Peru,
But no one knows whether, and no one knows whither
The Blue Knight has gone with his Mystic Kazoo.
Oh, look till you blither,
But no one knows whither—
Oh, where has he gone with his Mystic Kazoo?

IT IS NOTORIOUS that far too many popular songs rely on the familiar moon-June-spoon rhyme scheme, which was as tired a hundred years ago as it is today. But is it possible to write a good mune-Joon-spune song? In an old sheet-music archive, Dr. Boli has found a song that answers that question.

A night in June,
A waxing moon;
A lonesome loon
Began to croon:
I can’t forget that night in Saskatoon.

Out on the dune,
You said you’d spoon
With me, but soon
You changed your tune:
I can’t forget that night in Saskatoon.

I waited there for you till half past noon.
You popped my heart just like a toy balloon.

Now when the loon
Begins to croon
His lonesome tune
Like a bassoon,
I can’t forget that night in Saskatoon.

SOME TIME AGO, Dr. Boli published this touching lyric:

Take the Yashmak Off Your Head

From “Songs Without Words” by Leonid Alexeevich Bluski.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Fry it up with onions;
Mash it up with moldy bread
And rub it on your bunions.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Cover it with mustard;
Beat it till the mix turns red
And serve it up like custard.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

–

Yesterday, Dr. Boli’s electronic spies (for you must know that Dr. Boli has spies everywhere, which is one of the regrettable necessities of running an international publishing empire) informed him that some unnamed reader had used Google Germany’s translation service to translate this beautiful song into Chinese. Dr. Boli, whose curiosity has served him well over the past two centuries, found himself wondering what the song meant to a Chinese reader in Germany. He therefore had the same translation service translate the Chinese version back into English. These were the results:

You take the veil off his head

From “The Book of Songs without Words” of Leonid Alexeevich Bluski.

You take the veil off his head,
Fry it with the onion;
Mash it with moldy bread
Moreton in your bunions.
Ah, the veil,
Electronic Engineering Times, the veil,
Oh, veil,
Outdoors, the veil:
You take the veil off his head.

You take the veil off his head,
Cover with mustard gas;
Overcome it, until the mixture turns red
And it is like cake.
Ah, the veil,
Electronic Engineering Times, the veil,
Oh, veil,
Outdoors, the veil:
You take the veil off his head.

AS A GIFT to his readers, Dr. Boli presents this Valentine, which you may click to enlarge and print in high quality, choosing (of course) the best paper for the purpose. Alternatively, if the best paper will not feed through your printer, you may wish to copy the Valentine with a pantograph.

SOMEWHERE A POET scratches out a line.

Somewhere a teacher says Take up your pencils.

Somewhere a secretary says Ow my wrist hurts.

Somewhere a clerk says Welcome to Burger King how may I help you.

Somewhere a chicken waits to cross the road because he says I must see what is on the other side,

Stands on the brink on the brim on the cusp on the edge on the side on the border.

Praise the poet for speaking with the voice of the people.

Praise the poet for writing a poem that speaks as the people speak.

Praise the people for speaking in the words of poets.

Praise the people for standing still politely.

Praise the poem for avoiding rhyme and rhythm.

Praise the poem for being written in prose.

We shall have no poetry here.

A Poem in Four Tombstones, Prepared in Cooperation with the Neighborhood Children.