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then she wore a hat that looked like an outstretched raven, and pretended that the king's health depended on it,
a pair of adobe huts on her mind and a pair of iron ingots in her hands, she traipsed along the earthpath hoping for a gypsy or a hobo at least…
“True true”, they said, “adobe it has to be. No rainfall for 2 years now. Can’t kiln.”
A puddle here, or a julep these days isn’t any match for those manna showers that stretched the latitudes before. Yes.
“Find me a tiny pony, will you?”, she cried. “My legs are lithe and white from skipping stones across the Pyrenees but these adobe huts weigh so much.” Time to find a new home.
Came along a gypsy pony.
She crossed her legs over Finns, this pony as lithe as her legs, with hair as buxom as her bosom, that rose and fell like the inchcape bell. As they hurtled across the skies.
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4 comments:
why did you remove the comment?
and no it's not about flights of fancy.
though i dont exercise any control over its meanings
WHAT THE HELL IS WITH EVERYONE COMING ALONG DELETING THEIR COMMENTS!!
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