And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store?
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?
There was an old lady who lived in a shoe
But her sister’s tale, do you know that too?
A charming old lady she was and so free
Towards all and sundry with biscuits and tea.
You might call her eccentric: believe it or not
She so loved her tea that she lived in a pot.
But take foibles too far, and there’s danger about
When you see what it is, it is too late to shout.
For one day when the water was boiling and hot
She forgot to go out, so she stewed in the pot.
I don’t like painting eggs, I want to go home,
Said the girl with the curls to the little blue gnome.
But I need these eggs painted, the gnome wept its plea.
If they’re not done tomorrow, I’ll never be free!
There are too many eggs, there’s no way we can paint
them all by tomorrow! The gnome fell in faint.
But the girl didn’t panic, she knew just what to do,
She called to her friend, with thing one and thing two.
With little cats A – Z and the voom
Hat-cat got those eggs painted, and lifted the gloom.
Once in the vein of nonsense verse, I couldn’t resist this Dr Seussish prompt in the current round of 100wcgu.
On the far side of the looking glass, however, things did not seem to be quite the same. Alice could feel her nose twitching and her whiskers, too… Her what?! Alice looked down in alarm: not only did she have whiskers, but fur and …rabbit paws.
She glanced up at the looking glass, and saw herself on the other side. On this side she could see the reflection of the white rabbit, its eyes widened in fright. The weight of a large gold pocket watch dragged at her. She was late, she was late. She ran off in a panic.
Alwase cheque speling. Two meny mistaks our unprofesionnel end heartoo reed.
Stop writing before your readers stop rea.
Don’t brainwash your readers. Don’t brainwash your readers. Don’t brainwash your readers. Don’t brainwash your readers.
Metaphors are dust in the wind.*
The probability of a considerable percentage of those individuals perusing your fabrications being enlightened or entertained is habitually inversely proportional to your loquaciousness and polysyllabicity: be short to be clear.
Amazing your readers can backfire: widened pupils make it hard to read.