Sunday Lunch

A certain un-girdled general
who had a way with war weathered words,
if not his opposition, sent back this message
from the front: 
“Sire, we have met the enemy
and they invited us to lunch.”

 

(My humble offering to the “fantasy fiction field”):

Chapter 1, Page 1, first sentence: 

A sudden stillness invaded his mind
causing him to cry out for the first time
to his innards, “Hey, you talkin’ to me?”

 

After years of internal intrigue and turmoil,
the titular ruling powers of this one state
closed all the public offices and took a bus. 
(Say, I’m just glad as you are that psychology
has been inoculated against the likes of me.)

 

When push comes to shove,
he’s not usually there
to discuss the weather.
 

Someone who really trusts you
will roll on their back and let you rub their belly.

(Here Life, good boy, come here and lie down.)

J.

 

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