Here, have a poem. I seem to have posted this before, but...
TWILIGHT ON THE FIELD OF REEDS
The old Egyptians are winking out
On the astral- so my informant claims.
Her theory is they rely on us
Thinking about them, speaking their names
To raise the psychic energies
That keep them in the Field of Reeds,
But now our input is dropping off
Which makes her sad because she’s a fan
Of theirs and on the way to becoming
An adept in Egyptian magic.
Me, I’m much less sympathetic.
Haven’t they had their money’s worth,
I ask, of feasts and dancing girls
And all the things you see them doing
In murals- shooting ducks for instance
Or spearing hippopotami?
Isn’t it time they got in touch
With how things are back here on earth
Where all that stiff hieratic grace
No longer cuts it, but (thank heaven)
Artificial hips are in
And dental care is a lot improved?
You’ve rested up, so come on, guys,
Go get yourselves an incarnation.