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Stories for children and young at heart adults. And remember, my eBooks are FREE FREE FREE!
Chorus: And it’s oh, dear what can the matter be? Seven old ladies got stuck in the lavatory They were there from Sunday to Saturday Nobody knew they were there
The first old lady was Jennifer Pim she went in on a personal whim Somehow got stuck ‘tween the bowl and the rim And nobody knew she was there
The second old lady was little Miss Humphrey She sat down, and made herself comfy Tried to get up, but could not get her bum free And nobody knew she was there
The third old lady was little Miss Draper She went inside and she couldn’t find any paper All she could find was a bricklayer’s scraper And nobody knew she was there
The fourth old lady was a Catholic lass She went in just to try and skip mass A thief was inside, and he pinched her…handbag And nobody knew she was there
The fifth old lady was little Miss Bartlett She paid her penny and straight in she darted What a waste of a penny, ’cause she only *@rted And nobody knew she was there
The sixth old lady was little Miss Murray She went in, in a heck of a hurry When she got there, it was too late to worry And nobody knew she was there
The last old lady was little Miss Mason The toilets were full, so she peed in the basin And that was the water that I washed my face in ‘Cause I didn’t know she’d been there
The Lincoln Imp is the symbol of the City of Lincoln, the county town of Lincolnshire, England.
According to a 14th-century legend, two mischievous creatures called imps were sent by the Devil, Satan, to do evil work on Earth. After causing mayhem in Northern England, the two imps headed to Lincoln Cathedral, where they smashed tables and chairs and tripped up the Bishop. When an angel came out of a book of hymns and told them to stop, one of the imps was brave and started throwing rocks at the angel, but the other imp cowered under the broken tables and chairs. The angel turned the first imp to stone, giving the second imp a chance to escape. It is said that even on still days it is always windy around the Cathedral, which is the second imp circling the building looking for his friend.
There are many variations on Lincoln Imp legends. According to one popular legend, the imp which escaped fled north to Grimsby, where it soon began making trouble. It entered St. James’ Church and began repeating its behaviour from Lincoln Cathedral. The angel reappeared and gave the imp’s backside a good thrashing before turning it to stone as it had the first imp at Lincoln. The “Grimsby Imp” can still be seen in St James’ Church, clinging to its sore bottom. Another legend has the escaped imp turned to stone just outside the cathedral, and sharp-eyed visitors can spot it on a South outside wall.
Mad Eye Moody, can it really be, That splendid interpretation, a hero so free? Who gave up his all for the cry of the truth? So we could know that good is forsooth.
Yes, they can all Twitter, be it here, be it there, About American Idol and Celebrities fair, But can they replace the genius, so fine, Like Rowling and Dahl – or Wilson’s strange mind?
When next you are shopping in Wal-Mart, I think, If its bargains you’re after then remember the ink, On the paper, in the book section, where I’m waiting for sure, To temp you with my writing so as to open that door.
And when it is open my world of strange stuff, Will entrance and beguile you; the air will be hushed, As you read about Alice, the Cat and the Mouse, Harry Rotter and Jimmy – and Beetle About.
Forget about Powerball, cars and the news, Never mind Danny Choo – who is he? I muse Wikipedia doesn’t know me; heck, do I care, When I’ve got so many readers in the REAL WORLD out there!
Aliens landed in Ballykilduff, Aliens landed; that is a fact, In the dark of the night it happened, it did, At the end of my garden they landed, then hid.
Breda, dear Breda, wake up, will you please? Something is happening and I am all in a tizz! Leave me alone, she answered, I’m beat, Having said that to me she fell fast asleep.
Donning my gown and slippers I left, Her sleeping in bed as into the kitchen I crept, Searching for light, the torch, my best friend, I opened the door and into the garden I went.
Towards the end of the garden with my torch I progressed, Then I climbed over the fence into the field with its guests, Pointing my torch, I rained light upon them, Aliens a plenty around a spaceship humming.
What are they doing? I wondered out loud, Signalling my place, my location – and how, Pointing their guns, the Aliens zapped me with rays, Blue, yellow and green, orange and grey.
Thinking my time was finished, all gone, I fell to the ground awaiting the anon, Sorry about that, one of them said helping me up We thought you were a cow wanting to eat us all up
What are you doing? I asked with curious eyes, Seeing them cutting the grass, then taking it inside, We are refueling our spaceship, he told me quite proud, We get one light year per armful, he said out aloud.
That’s amazing, I said, can I go see inside? Sorry, he answered, it’s too small for your like, Laughing, I asked if there was anything they need, Yes, he told me forthrightly, can we have some tea?
Tea? I asked, you drink tea way up there, In outer space, with its atmosphere rare? No, silly, he replied, it’s to pour down our boots, We never travel with them empty, forsooth.
You pour tea down your boots? I laughed out loud, What does it do, make you fly like a bird? It does, he told me, how did you know that? Was your mother or father an alien, or even your cat?
Just then I heard something, someone calling to me, Gerrard, wake up, its morning; here is your tea, Opening my eyes, I saw Breda, my wife, Offering the cup of plenty, tea; it’s my life.
Where are my boots? I asked, still half sleep, I want them, I need them; oh where are they please? They are under the bed, here, she said, offering them to me, Why do you want them before drinking your tea?
Accepting my boots, I poured in the tea, What on earth are you doing? she asked warily, I don’t go anywhere without filling them first, Can I have another cup, I asked, because I sure have a thirst.
The moral of my story is this: Don’t go anyway near Ballykilduff, GIVE IT A MISS, Strange things are happening down that neck of the woods, Like Aliens, and Slugs driving campervans – and Fiats to boot.
Crazymad Stories for children and young at hear adults
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