Florence once said, To her shy husband, Ted, “I’ve had an amazing idea!” “And what might that be?” he asked, tentatively, (He was not sure he wanted to hear.) “It would be so good, If only we could, Have a few people over for dinner? I thought Easter Day – all the kiddies could play And an egg hunt would be a humdinger!” It was time he got over, His acute social phobia, Whatever the cost, it was worth it. They would start really slow, and then gently let go, If you’re caught in a bubble, just burst it! He agreed to her plea, Somewhat reluctantly, ‘Though she thought she was onto a winner! Preparations were made and tempers were frayed, As Ted’s wallet grew visibly thinner. It would be fancy dress, With a prize for the best, And the wine had been pleasantly tasted. Eggs in strange places, excitement in faces, But Ted only wished to get wasted! Florence tried to explain, But her words were in vain, And upon his deaf ears they did fall. Betty Boo and The Bunny, Florence thought would be funny, So she gave a costumier a call. When the outfits arrived Ted was quite horrified, He wished he had paid more attention. In a Pink Bunny suit, Florence said he was cute, Now he prayed for divine intervention. The guests were arriving, Some kids started crying, Whenever he ventured too near, So Ted sat in a corner, tried to make himself smaller With a basket of eggs and a beer. By the time folk were leaving, And gladly receiving An egg from The Bunny himself, He was parched, dehydrated and exasperated And intended to leave with some stealth! But he was so clumsy, The zip on his onesie, Was broken beyond all repair. But he had to get out – get some air and a stout, Leaving Florence in total despair. Keeping well out of sight, Under cover of night, He made his way to “The King’s Head”. He collapsed on a stool and some bloody fool, Shouted out, “Take his pulse – is he dead?” About two days later, The Pink Bunny Caper, Went viral on Facebook and Twitter, On the BBC news and press interviews Now he’s cured of his pre-bunny jitter.
I've been around quite a while now, trying to be normal and failing, miserably. Then, looking about me, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, it was okay not to be normal. The more I see of planet earth the less I like it. In fact I needed a release for my negativity, so I began to write poems -an explosion of them, and then another and another. When people read them, sometimes they laughed and, when they did, my face managed to find most of the 43 muscles we humans use to raise a smile. Then, I came to the conclusion. With a global population of 7.5 billion it would stand to reason that there must be others of like mind, with or without poetry. Now that the copious ravings of a sixty-something granny of seven, lay, sullen and despondent, I feel it is time for me to reach out to the world and offer a place in my banana tree for those who find some kind of quietude by immersing themselves in art.
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