O The Children Sang to Me

O, the children sang to me
Their blissfull, awful song
A trite and sorry haberdash
Is now my sole sarong*

A dragon spoke and spake in flame
The children also spake in flame
So whilst the twirls did lick and flick
I died inside, of shame

Amphitheater. Amphitheater. Amphitheater.

Amphitheater.

Walk the dock with yellow clogs
Munch a slender cake
I felt the fellow with seven names
And the dragon flamely spake

*A garment made of long stripped cloth
Flitting like a zillion moths

Dare You?

Indulge me for one brief moment. My primal hypnotherapist/electromagnetician was dropping in to my abode as the government pays her to do, and she was absolutely enraptured by my collection of fossils. I was mortified to realize that I, in my selfishness, had not even begun to mention them in my ever-more-popular blorging. The description shall begin when you enter my home:

As your eyes adjust to the dark, you see dim figures slowly becoming solid. To your right, a hat rack with 15 hooks, each sporting either a top hat or scarf. To your left, a hilariously tiny typewriter. This is where I excrete my blorgs.
Enter H.N., devilishly handsome and intriguingly squat. He takes your hand gently and leads you through the apartment. It smells of sage...

Sorry I just received a call from my PHTEM. She is telling me that my fossils are worth 7 trillion dollars. Now she's asking me on a date! Allow me to finish my fascinating word adventure some other time... Methinks life is just beginning for this old vinegar bottle.