Alm to the Beekeeper

Like Batman singing along to some gospel.
But without the cape or Alfred, little Bruce
sat down like a hero at the children’s table
and poured some cold cereal and a tall glass
of bourbon through a straw then began to iron
a dead rose, waiting for his special red phone
to blow up. Like the last time, it was the Penguin
wanting to jokingly end his life through a game
of hopscotch or basketball. The stakes had never
been so high; either yay you won, you won, you won
or death by owl. Batman slapped himself silly
on the back with an eel and began to chuckle
like Santa Claus a little as he lit a Camel Cigarette
and said ‘moist little jackass. cum-bag glitch. etc… .’
before calling Alfred. But Alfred had drunk a 6-pack of
Corona and was so far gone you could go ahead and toss
him in the W.A.S.T.E. basket along with Mucho Maas.
I handed Batman my umbrella and said, ‘So!–have you
heard of this Michael Jordan? I hear he wants to sell hotdogs… .’