Now I send a special request to the Ninefold: Dear Daughters of Memory, please give Prince James a vision of his mom in a cloud, even though her current residence is the underworld.
“Zounds, it’s mother! Aren’t you dead?”
“Fifty bullets in my head.”
“Why then am I glimpsing you,
Up above, in sky so blue?”
“Here I float, in cloud so white,
Mainly to bedaze your sight;
Plus to warn you of the plague.”
“Being sick is such a drag.”
“Not that plague — the one from Zeus:
He will make it rain down moose.”
“Wow, that sounds a trifle queer;
Is Zeus mad at me this year?”
“No; it’s just your fate, my son.
Here comes one now: Run, run, run!”
“O no! Heaven’s raining moose!
Bye, mom! See you soon! Hang loose!”
“Au revoir! Hang loose, my son!
Now my second life is done—”
“Yes, a moose just fell on you.
Now I’ll head to my canoe
Where my guide awaits my soul.”
“Prince James, climb into this bowl.
Paddle fast — no time to waste!”
“What’s the reason for our haste?”
“We must get you properly registered at the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV).”
“Are you telling me that I need to obtain a driver’s license, so that I can legally pilot a commercial blimp in the afterlife?”
“Yes. However, be frightened; for airships are very different here, compared to what you know from Planet Earth. You will need to execute the most complex maneuvers, to avoid all the precipitating animals that shall keep threatening to poke holes in your dirigible.”
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