Because of the dreaded dragon, cancer, and the after-effects of treatment, I have dedicated myself to clearing out junk. There are those who might believe my entire home to be thus. Some of my beloved treasures I sent to homes where I know they will be appreciated. Some 50 of my clocks I just donated to Sally Ann. This day past, my evil twin came to assist me in packing stuff up. (Thanks, P.)
After 22 boxes left the condo, I hesitated over a few books. I cant bear to give away books without telling them how much I loved them. This ceremony amuses others, but truly I have to. In one of the books was a sheath of paper with poems of Arda. My own, of course. I gazed through with a smile. I have not visited Ardan soil since my falling-out with a certain Ainu. A certain Ainu who referred to my home as a "shit-hole." ----cough I miss the place, but not enough to go back. I couldnt bear it to be honest. One of the things about cancer is that it totally sharpens your senses to what is important. Although my holiday helped immensely, I still dont have enough in reserve not to burst into tears. No kiddin. I am a wuzz.
I have a feeling that Frank Gough told this little treat to me, I dont think it's one of mine. It;s sure cute though. I wonder what Frank is doing. If he is still on this side of the sod he will be 98. The scribe. Frank was part Cary Grant, part Edward Gorey. I adore him.
" A little lace in it's place - titillation.
A little frill a little thrill - stimulation.
Doff the lot, what have you got?-- revelation."
For some reason, this little ditty was with dozens of poems about hobbits. - heh