Perry Como had rabid animal attacks. Backstage, after a performance, he would lie on the floor of his dressing room thrashing about, foaming at the mouth. They had to tie him to a board with ropes, soft ones so they would not redden or bruise his tender skin. Sometimes, when his rabid animal attack was really bad, they would wrap him in two sheets and soak them with water. Even Houdini, who also was known to have rabid animal attacks, had a hard time escaping from wet sheets wrapped around his body. Allow me to introduce myself, I am a character from another poem. Suddenly I woke up in this one, although my presence has no bearing here. The poem I was in was an ode to bodily fluids. It went, O fluids, thou unsung thou miraculous bearers of love tidings, envelopes of DNA—but here I am lying on the floor of what appears to be a dressing room, next to a man whose head is protruding from wet sheets. He is foaming at the mouth. Perhaps that is why I am here, to observe and report on the rivulet of clear saliva sliding down his chin and onto the worn blue carpet.