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The prize for aphorism of the week goes to Matilde Bonaparte for:
Time flies when you're sedated.
Matilde wins a tin of Highland Shortbreads which will soon be winging its way across the pond.
The big bird of depression spreads his dark wings, as he hovers, low in Christmas skies – they never write seasonal songs about him, though – not like the robin, or those flying reindeer.
This is an Alice in Wonderland world.
I think I'll go fall down a rabbit hole.
2 comments:
Wrong again, George. There's a famous seasonal song about the big bird of depression. It goes something like:
"The big bird of depression spreads his dark wings 'cross the sky,
The festival is Christmas and he wishes he were high,
But the fuzz have pinched his stash and threatened him with jail
His bint's flown off with a bald eagle and life looks kinda stale.
So he swoops to earth in search of love, but in vain to seek a mate,
For his wings get caught in a reindeer's harness, oh what an awful plight,
All wrapped up in Santa's sleigh the entourage plunges down,
lost forever down a rabbit hole, just on the outskirts of town."
(Chorus)
"Just on the outskirts of town, fa, la,
Just on the outskirts of town."
It's sung to the old medieval tune of "My hey noni's shrunk to a peanut, tra, la, and my nonino's all of a quiver."
Yes, of course, you know the one. There's more verses but I can't recollect them all right now. You could try 'Google'.
Merry Christmas, George.
I laughed out loud when I saw that you quoted me. I'm honored. I hope that it doesn't mean that you've been sedated. Write me soon and let me know that you're well.
Merry Christmas, dearest George. I'm thinking of you on this side of the pond.
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