Dear Diary,
Today was Father's birthday. I contemplated presenting him with a small, carved wooden box that had come into my possession but thought better of it and wrote him a simple poem instead:
Oh Father,
Indeed, I would rather...
like to hope and pray,
that this very special day,
is full of pleasant memories
and hours filled with laughter
and joy forever after...
and now my poem's done.
Your ever loving son.
I found Ned and read it to him. "Pleasant mammaries?" He asked perplexed.
He asked for it I'm afraid and I 'cocked a snook' at him!
Chapel was just as dull as usual but I accidentally knelt upon Willy's foot and then shortly after dropped my hymnal upon his still throbbing tootsies whilst singing 'Fight the good fight'. He was unceremoniously led out by Jane, by the ear lobe, after blaspheming loudly.
I slipped a note under his door this evening that if discovered by another should not be misconstrued, though I trust he will grasp it's meaning. It read:
'You are a little 'bigger'!'
Kristin Chenowith - Home
14 years ago
4 comments:
Oh Wayne,
the day is done again...
and it has been my pleasure
to read your little treasure
with a malaproism from your Ned
just something he innocently said
and it really was a dilly
how you got back at little Willy
he deserved everything he got
the miserable little shot!
Yours in rhyme,
B.
My dear Mr Moose,
You have amused me in return. You quite tickled my funny bone with your verse.
Yours amusedly,
Wayne Austen.
Oh, Wayne! I can tell you so little of myself, for the merest hint might set those fiends on my trail! For I unhappily crossed paths with a harridan named Belinda Sue Darcy, who claims to be a descendant of a family described by that Hampshire novelist who shares a name with your sister. I will say that I originated in the United States, but dare not tell you where I am now. Once I showed a degree of pleasantry to the foul Belinda Sue, who mistook politeness for affection and pursues me with the determination of a combined flock of Norrises, Tents, and Wyndes. I dare say no more.
Kissies,
Your -h
My dear distant 'Henry?'
Ye Gods! Indeed keep your head down below the parapet!
Yours sympathetically,
Wayne Austen
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