Jim Foster

Now fearing my imminent demise, I poured a small dram of Glenfiddick and drifted into my usual day-dream.

Most of the boys in the class started to save for one.

Now here’s where it gets strange. There is nothing in the poem to suggest Mr. Dumpty was an egg.

It was fairly common knowledge around Greece that Narcissus was not what one would call the sharpest knife in the drawer.

How they got in there I have no idea. At that moment I was in the kitchen trying to dry the couch cushions.

He should be lying home in bed,
Instead where is he, likely dead.

I usually pretend to wave at someone across the street and quietly slip away.

I can see where he, and his wife too, probably, could end up in a cardiac ward.

I must admit the first ten viewings I missed most of the plots looking for Emma’s bottom.

My doctors had developed the annoying habit of calling in their associates while I was still on the scales and saying odd things, like “That can’t be right, can it?”