His thoughts fall neatly into patterns now.
Each seeks its cubby hole and there it lies
As solemn as a little pullet egg,
Ready for market, sorted as to size.
Once on a time, long ago and far away,
Fire smoked and kindled. Thoughts whipped a gale.
Ideas kept on dropping from his lips
Like toads and diamonds in a fairy tale.
– Inez George Grindley –