Juan Gris The Guitar

Juan Gris The GuitarJuan Gris BreakfastGeorge Bellows Stag at Sharkey's
Your legs to swell to tree trunks!" snapped the tortoise.
"But-but," said Brutha, "you're saying the prophets were . . . just men who wrote things down! "
"That's what the dead?"
"I don't know," said the tortoise. "Who did it before?"
"You did!"
"Did I?"
Brutha stuck his fingers in his ears and opened up with the third verse of Lo, the infidels flee the wrath of Om.
After a couple of minutes the tortoise stuck its head out from under its shell.
"So," it said, "before unbelievers get burned alive . . . do you sing to them first?"
"No!"they were!""Yes, but it wasn't from you!""Some of it was, perhaps," said the tortoise. "I've . . . forgotten so much, the past few years.""But if you've been down here as a tortoise, who's been listening to the prayers? Who has been accepting the sacrifices? Who has been judging