She came and brought a feather,

wafted it onto the desk with

thoughtfulness and affection.

She thought of me when I wasn't there

And brought me a tufty white thing. ?

Then she said nothing and smiled

At my grinny thanks

And went away.

I'm so horrible but a feather

Is so artsy and I'm so not,

And why didn't she say anything What

does she mean by it We never talk

nowadays.

She came the next day to borrow a book.

Looked at the single shelf in my wall

that had books in it, picked up a book of fairytales,

(Perrault, not Grimm) and thanked me quietly.

Why does she always have to pick airy-faery

stuff And why did I just spell fairy faery And

why can't I get through a book, any book

whether serious or fun without it being compulsory

Oh God I'm turning into one of those colossal(ly)

bitchy bores that can't Think of anybody else and why

Are my capitals going Haywire and my line lengths inconsistent

And Why am i stuck in internal monologue?

BREATHE! BREATHE!

[gasping sounds. other people presumably come on stage]

Narrator (also me): Yeah, so. Pity the tale of she, he, whatever. This is just One of the many people (p.c.pronoun) knows.