4:27 p.m. - February 07, 2003
Rob sent me a book from London featuring nursery rhymes that indulges my love for words and unfettered roll-your-eyes moments. A few selections:
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.
Jack Sprat ate food that was fat free,
Although his wife behaved diametrically.
By exploiting their disparity of gastronomic taste,
Their co-dependence ensured the minimum of waste.
OK, OK, so it's not funny for you. But these things make me smile and that's good enough for me. Here's another:
Fly away home.
Your house is on fire
And all your children are gone.
All except one,
And that's little Ann,
For she has crept under the fying pan.
Red aphid-eater with black punctuation!
Avolate to your domestic conflagration.
All your progeny have decamped
And little Ann is extremely cramped:
Instead of running away
She's under the Le Creuset.
One more, just one more!
Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them.
Leave them alone, and they'll come home.
Wagging their tales behind them.
Little Bo-Peep has demonstrably failed in her mission
To maintain a group of ruminant
mammals under close supervision.
At home the animals will
So long as Bo-Peep doesn't interfere.
They're not stupendous, just like most things. I'm off Monday!
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