A bit of silliness I have been working on.
Let me tell you of a journey- from The Parthenon to Paris in the springtime - of which real year, no one knew Riding on an ostrich guided by a gilded leather bridle traveling back roads dressed in mysterious disguises using signals only ostrich riders do. The endurance of the ostrich was as equally surprising as the smoothness of its gallop on the road. It needed very little in the way of daily edibles while the softness of its feathers made a very comfy saddle. Now an ostrich made an eerie sight in swaying fields of daffodils. Its three-pronged feet so admirable for climbing alpine hills. It handled every mountain as well as any Hannibal with eyes adept to guide a sleepy rider while he slept. The gallop into Paris was singularly memorable – No wildly cheering crowds of proud Parisians-no-one knew- No showers of cherry blossoms sprinkled from the Eiffel Tower in praise or celebration of this epic ostrich rider. What evidence is there, then? What memory endures Perhaps a photograph or witness tells the tale If the novelty is forgotten and the mists of time have passed Could fields of daffodils remember or perhaps the Cherry blossoms?
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