The grandest lady in the Fib Sunday

Can you read my mind?

Yibol shickey, milley unt scrubbely. Me screwbah noaow. Nogowe. Wee.

And welcome, mes amis, to this Easter edition of the Fib that is Sunday. The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun when you read my mind.

I thought it might be a nice idea to pop out to one of Edinburgh's many art galleries this afternoon. Or perhaps jump off from the top of the Scott Monument.

I don't mind if you don't mind, dear reader.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. They are the best set of instructions on the internet. No, really. Well, apart from the Catholic guide to sitting on a gentleman's face. But that's another story.

In brief:

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:

One
Small,
Precise,
Poetic,
Spiraling mixture:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last time, Brian left us with the topic of Minge hikes up Ben Nevis. My exhausted and blistered response:

One
foot
in front
of the next?
One hundred thousand
See Minge be a tit on The Ben.

Next topic:

Easter parade.