Alex and Myrtle bought a piece of property at the junction of the Chateauguay and Marble Rivers. The remainder of their lives was spent fishing for browns and brookies in Franklin County.
The fish was saved by placing him in a huge water bottle. He can be seen there to this day; still procrastinating. His powers of obfuscation have been lost due to the clarity of his environment.
Henry is working in a shoe factory as a polisher. In the evenings and on weekends he continues this task at a local apple orchard.
Fred had a job (that he dearly loved) cleaning the mirrors in a local fitness gym. He became so absorbed with his own image that he could not distinguish between his real self and his reflection. The absorption became so great that he eventually became one with the mirror; never to be seen again.
Lola and Pfeffer ended up robbing liquor stores. They are now incarcerated in a women’s prison in upstate New York. Conjugal visits are neither allowed, nor necessary.
The beaver and the moose were last seen crossing the New York-Canadian border.
The Irishman returned to the glorious green hills of Killarney.
I have no idea what became of the caterwauler.
The alchemist is employed forging scimitars somewhere in the Arabian Peninsula.
The rabbit path (being a dream) can not be elaborated upon other saying that it reoccurs from time to time.
Oh yes, the frog apparently was not dead but simply entered a state of hibernation. He awoke, moved to the Bronx and worked in a Castle Hill Avenue bodega as a stock boy. On weekends he saved souls in the Tremont Avenue Pentecostal Church. On moonless nights he became “Comandante Sapo Concho” (complete with gold lame` cape) and fought crime throughout Parkchester, the Bronx.
Papa, Oh Papa, repeat the story true,
Of machines that rotate, spin and hew,
Steel and oil that are smoking too,
With flying hot chips that turn the air blue.
My little ones inquisitive and naïve,
Imagine machines that rip and cleave,
All day, all night, till All Hollows Eve,
These automatons died, but do not bereave.
Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so bright,
Of electron tubes and adders with might,
That calculate hexadecimaly, byte-by-byte,
With every answer accurate and right.
The priests of programming donned their blue robes,
Then waved rubber chickens, lizards and toads,
To magically devise queer algorithms and modes,
For predicting profits, elections, various codes.
Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so sad,
Of the executive who was very very bad,
Was his ineptness almost the sign of a cad,
Did he not accept blame, not even a tad?
Prima, you know the story so well,
Secunda, you blow the story up swell,
Tertia, if only you could just tell,
The tale to yourselves, while I rest in the dell.