She knows if she touches it, she'll break it, dear reader.
I wish that I was married
And all my work was done
Living with my ma-in-law
And sleeping with her son
Bubble and squeak, mon amour. And welcome to Fib Sunday.
If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Or if poetry's not your bag, try this, a gallery of men in kilts. It's really quite fabulous.
Oh, and by the way, I've recently learned to count to ten. Look:
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. So confident am I, I'm thinking of resitting GCSE/standard grade maths. But not before I've mastered eleven to one hundred. It's the teens, they get me every time. Why can't it be oneteen, twoteen, threeteen...?
I might write to The Queen and complain. She's a good girl and loves the common people, always taking their side. You know, the lowly ranks, the Baronets and Life Peers.
Hark at me, veering from the subject at hand, my little maid! Fib Sunday...
1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...
A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.
Last week, Matty finished off proceedings with a poem about Anne Murray. Sadly, he didn't leave a new topic. The last person to do that was Anjou Wu with quality or quantity?
My superior and abundant response:
it's for real.
Stories of our lives:
Lots of small cocks or one big one?