As random as a random turn and heading for a fate I sealed it in an envelope and second class did wait. And when it came I opened it and whispered out aloud. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then thundered out some lightening and puffed a big grey cloud.
Higher than a drama high and playing down to low I didn’t say goodbye at all but said a sad hello. And when my bucket hit rock bottom I pulled it out my well. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then laced my drink to let me drowse until asleep I fell.
As wondrous as a rainy bow I didn’t seem to mind and tied a knot with string to spare and read a message signed. And when a diggy dog did dig a treasure trove was there. Well well well and well, said I Well well well and well then stopped a stopwatch on its way which didn’t seem to care.
So, shredded as an ageing fleur and crumbly as a cemetery I asked if anybody here could die of immortality? And how I gasped when then up-popped a real talking rabbit: Well well well and well, said rabbit well well well and well but if you find whatever it is hide it quick as well.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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