lady tremayne had a big white boa constrictor
many thoughts possessed it
not in a million years would it surrender its dreams of the moon
or drink its tea in peace and serenity
power was its game
quietly thanking the zeitgeist it slowly untressed it
restful purple tranquility
seductive as yellow wallpaper or blue porcelain never possessed it
thinking on rainy mornings of being the victor
unless being too witty
viscountess tremayne never suspected that it might have tricked her
was certainly a most crying shame
except on sunny afternoons in despair the gardener rested
yet the tone of lord tremayne's nice bassoon
zero times lame
and the muskrat in the frog pond grew forever wickeder
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