I’m going to start walking on four legs.  Screw this bipedal bull dung, if you know what I’m saying.   Tired of the upright pretense of walking on two legs.   Too much work and not much pay off, I say.  My lower back hurts more than it used to and I’m pretty sure I know why.

I look at my master, the only time he’s up on two legs is to grab my wrist with sharp claws and sink his fangs into my hand.   The rest of the time he moves and relaxes horizontally.  Way to go, I say.  And I’ve never heard him complain about his back hurting him.

“Where are you going with this?” asks one of those upstanding prigs, the kind who scrutinize with a wrinkled nose.

“Follow me if you can,” I say, putting my palms on the floor, along with my toes, and moving smartly up the staircase.

Louis Armstrong was once asked by a square what the meaning of jazz was.  “If you got to ask, Daddy, you ain’t never gonna know,” said Armstrong.

So if I go on two legs, or on four, what I’m saying is the same– and so is the song I’m humming.  Only my hands will be a little more calloused when I gesticulate, you know, since I’ve been walking on four instead of two limbs.