Let the following be a warning to all writers of the perils of writing while inebriated.
The Last Chance Motel
Old King Cole was a merry old soul when I caught up with him after an afternoon in a cheap motel with Little Bo Peep minus her sheep.
Although he had to rush back to his counting house quite quickly, he did have time to answer a few of my questions.
Yes, he was indeed the king in Sing a Song of Sixpence, but he preferred that it be kept quiet.
I pressed him about Jenny Wren, but he refused to comment and then angrily stormed off.
It was a pity for him that he didn’t notice the commotion going on outside as when he left, in a huff, he walked straight into a slippery mess left by one Humpty Dumpty, a rotund sort of fellow, who had seemingly committed suicide by falling from atop a very high wall.
Cole slipped and landed on his back in a sticky puddle of albumen, and it took the help of a doddery old woman called Hubbard to get him halfway out.
Inspector Jack Sprat was sent to investigate but failed to see the yolk as people laughed until their Ding Dong’s Belled and when Little Bo Peep heard the ruckus, she ran out of the nearby motel yielding her crook in a menacing fashion.
Sprat arrested her immediately and charged her with Riding a Cock Horse without a permit.
A Crooked Man happened by, and Sprat arrested him as well simply for merely being crooked.
Luckily the man’s Crooked Cat was too quick and went scampering off To Visit The Queen. Friends in high places it seemed.
I stood at the window aghast as a fellow casually walked past carrying his wife in a pumpkin.
I asked a very friendly goose, who was watching the scene with me if she has seen such a sight. “Oh, that’s Peter, Peter. He’s like that,” said she.
Finally, my time was up as I could hear the sound of Hickory, Dickory Dock and of silent mice feet running upwards.
Time to go back to my sofa and my empty glass of red wine.
Then wait for the next time I hear the inviting call of Little Boy Blue’s horn and the chance to interview another famous associate of Mother Goose.
No, never write drunk.
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