THE STONEHENGE POEM
Stonehenge, wherefore wilt thou dance dwelling in England, not in France? On solstice day to don your stockings would gain you naught but random mockings. Therefore, Stonehenge, bide your time. To bathe in thought is not a crime.
Stonehenge, wherefore wilt thou dance dwelling in England, not in France? On solstice day to don your stockings would gain you naught but random mockings. Therefore, Stonehenge, bide your time. To bathe in thought is not a crime.
1263, when excluding the unnecessary word ‘bellicose’.
Was that sound an elephant stepping onto a carpet of unshelled peanuts or just me turning my head to look out the window?
The board certified gnat conferred with the studious rat. First they hemmed. Then they hawed. Oh, for hours they jawed ignored by the mercantile cat.
1 She entered the room like balloons wrestling. 2 She entered the room. The room sighed, or was it me.
Loon: The Lords of the 4th Dimension tell me the guest for today’s 3 question interview is some fellow named Edmund Gwenn. They can’t fool me. You’re really Santa Claus, aren’t you, Mr. so called Edmund Gwenn? Edmund Gwenn’s ghost: Of course I am. Loon: I thought so. Tell me, Santa, can the reindeer read? […]
Ned’s Mom’s biscuits were the worst. You could drive nails with ’em.
Ned Sparks’ trademark pained expression: a. was the result of an unusual encounter with an otter. b. was the result of plastic surgery gone awry. c. happened whenever he thought of the biscuits his dear old mother used to make. d. was used to mask a much more pained expression indeed.