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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Wednesday, 6 December 2006

I'm writing my stage play and hope to run a partial script by you all soon.
The imagination is my muse.
It cajoles and torments the heart to strike up different emotions to suit its fancy, that I would write accordingly.
So i am what you would term a tormented artist..
I'm swamped with an avalanche of new words as soon as i wake up from sleep each day.
From the sublime into the conscious. That's the time.
I thought, no more picture books. No more children's for a while. Just a peaceful stage play of revenge and murder.
And then today, these words came to me: It's just a silly old thing and here they are still very clumsily put: because I haven't had a chance to rearrange anything:

There was a very old woman
so old and so alone
and sitting on her own
in her nightgown of gold,
She had hairs on her chin
and on the glint of her skin
and warts could be found
from an unwashed mound
in her deep secret ground.
She went to get some water
and she fell and screamed
oof, oof,
then she tripped over a spider
and she screamed again
oof, oof,
The spider got scared and
cursed her bad
He called his friends
for a crisis plan, it was the
end and they were
not big hardy men
oof, oof,
went the old woman,
oof, oof,
oof, oof and oof, oof
She thought,
why not murder the spiders
and boil them in a pot.
But the spiders packed
their webs, all it took was
a quick sticky dab
and then they migrated
into a corner
where the old woman
lost them assunder.
Only one cobweb had
to be rescued
and that was the one
the spiders had built
from an unwashed mound
in the old woman's
deep secret ground
and when the spiders
tried to save this cobweb
with the aid of a sickle
and something of a tickle
the old woman jumped
and hopped, and
kicked and oofed
and without a thought,
fell into her cooking pot.
- susan abraham -

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