January 13, 2010

“Sow wheat in the fields where my sow used to roam,” decreed the King after he wound the bandage around his arm wound.

“Yes, sire,” said the lackey.

“Bow when you address me, and hand me that bow,” snarled the King.

“Yes, sire,” said the lackey, bowing.

“Sire?” said the jester, bowing his viola da gamba.

“What is it?” asked the King.

“The damsels have arrived to wind the clock,” said the jester.

“Excellent. Have them do it right away before the wind picks up. We’re in for some weather, I’m thinking. And one more thing. That pile of refuse over there?”


“I refuse to look at it for another instant! Clean it up! Now!”

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