Solomon Grundy was born on some day. Christened with the name of a saint whose books were the crowning jewels of the ashes at the bottom of the hearth, he grew up to be a nemesis of his namesake. He took his brain out and exchanged it for a box of firewood. He married an epic work of literature, framed it and hung it on the wall as the centerpiece. He poured moonshine on his innards, quenching his spark but sparking the fire. His lungs sang his swansong on a weekday, and he was buried by the pall bearers, since his family was off to the moon.
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