Freddie went and hugged the flood.
Freddie floundered in the mud.
Freddie went crazy in the head.
And now Freddie Flounder is dead, dead, dead.
This is the song we drunkenly sang after the flood and after Freddie Flounder was dead, and no longer around for us to mock and tease.
He wasn’t there anymore for us to pour milk in his locker or clap his ears with our hands when we sat behind him on the bus.
We couldn’t call him fag or snap his alabaster ass in the locker room with our towels. We would never follow him down the street threatening to rape his sister or set his house on fire.
No one would be able to call his home to let his mother know that his father had died in a car crash on the way home from work, was being accused of molesting children, or had left her for another man because she was such a fucking whore.
He was no longer there for us to plan his imminent demise as we took long bong hits at parties in the endlessly empty houses where our parents were not around, and would not be around, until some magical time when they sobered-up, cut down on business travel, or merely came home from whatever secret debaucheries they engaged in when we had no idea where they were or what they were doing.