Let the Chinese Mafia Sleep Tonight

Let them sleep and dream the dream of lobsters; I am likewise at peace in my little cottage trying to become Mr. Five Willows. I figure a crabapple is useful to no one but itself, but my safety depends on having no place where death can enter and not acting on every rustling of the smallest branch. My abode is at the bank of a river, a river that comes out of the marsh where the river merchant’s wife has pined for her departed husband for the last 300 years. Beetles fight on a dung heap; that’s the essence of war. With axes and arrows, a superior force approaches my door; let them knock lightly, so as not to disturb the bird in the cage, which I am coaxing to sing, while the candle burns to illumine the midnight lore whose frayed texts drive me to the brink of insanity. Let them all sleep and dream that the God of War has brought them riches in the shape of gold nuggets only to find in the morning an empty store. You can be in my dreams if I can be in yours. In any case, let the Chinese mafia sleep tonight so I can be at peace and in the morning, open wide my door.