But the tree was the home of an impLike the tree, he was gnarled and gimpBut this wee little manWho called himself BranIn the magicks was hardly a wim....When he saw his poor home, how he cursedHe was filled with a terrible thirst'twas vengeance he cravedWith a cackle depravedHe set about doing his worst.He hobbled on up to the clubTo return, with interest, their snubSince the patrons were lassesWith firm, well-toned assesHe also had hopes for a rub.The receptionist, whose name was Joan,Said. When we reached the balcony, she led me along a row of private booths. The walls on these were higher than the ones downstairs, with curtains hanging across the entrances. She chose one and pulled me inside. The booth was a circle, large enough for a party of maybe ten people (if they were well acquainted). There was a low table in the center, small enough to be out of the way, mostly. We had a view of the main stage, but little else in the bar. As I entered, I turned around to see her closing. More

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