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“‘Tis a pity,” said the mongoose to the wildcat, when he arrived back in the palace. “It seems I have misplaced my footwear in the garden.” “What a shame!” replied the wildcat, “I always did believe in ghosts.” The aardvark in the corner was a much better guest, but that was in the olden days. Now the lore is much more subdued.

Whilst the trio of crazies were fancifully fulfilling the roles of each in their own way, the trains rolled on through the night. The owls flew overhead and the mice all cheered for the moon. “To be in this state,” thought the bear to himself, “must be an odd feeling for a moose.” The trap thought the same, although much more subdued, for when did the iron ever think on its own? On through the evening, the great horses ran. The steam off them rolling, the coal burning through. “Oh, for a daisy!” cried the great blue lagoon, and the fish all swam in a pool.

“To go to school! That is our goal,” exclaimed the one with the beard and the shovel. They all soon agreed, and off they traversed, to see why the cows all cried “Moo!” For the cats in the cradle, this is not strange: to see all these odd things in play. For when does it happen, that all this is written, and where does the drunk priest pray?

These were the thoughts that ran through his head, as he sat at the base of the tree. A bit too much ale and a tad too much bagel, this is what ruined his day. So, let this be a lesson to those who are wary, to never go out for a stroll. When the moon is all purple, and the parrots are crying, and the whimsical take up a pen. Woe to the man who makes sense of this. His brain soon might take leave of him.

With that, I bid you good night.