Oiseau supérieure?

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I’ve begun another poem – about weddings, and matrimony, and men – and that’s all right.  Except I just got a little way in, three lines or so.  Then I thought, “Ooh, I haven’t watched this week’s ep of iZombie, yet.  Hmmm…”

So pursuing the poem was put on hold.  Of course, halfway through the episode, I had a stray thought about the poem.  Followed by another, and another, then a complete epiphany about the direction it should take, then a whole slew of verses alighting full-formed in the old addle-pated cranium.

But I held on, strong-minded, determined.  It was a jolly fine episode, you see.  And anyway, if I just mentally repeated these lines that had come to mind – gold, pure gold – then it wouldn’t be a problem.  Would it?

My eye, it wouldn’t.  Can I remember any of it now?  Can I cobblers.  Gosh darn.

I’ve posted up the beginning on Wattpad, anyhow, here.  Perhaps if I put my skull in a bag and give it a good old shake, perhaps…

 

P.S. That isn’t moi up above.  I don’t normally write in a state of undress.  ( Well, maybe on Christmas Day, drinking before lunch.)

Also I’m not a nineteenth-century French top bird.  Oiseau supérieure?

 

Image – Wilbouchewitch, Nageotte, no known copyright restrictions.

 

 

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