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Feb 2018
As Ludo turbo'd stage left, thanks to a faroff yank,
he was pulled into the shape of an Egyptian ankh,
& even tho' holding hands w/ a fly was rather gank.

Eloise instinctively grabbed a mitt
(well aware flies' limbs are oft-caked  in bits
of **** & garbage goop, but as a tomboy, it

was 2nd nature to throw hygiene to the wind).
Whilst Weeze skitched ride on  new muscid friend,    
Ludo joked, 'We're like Jan Van Dyne & Henry Pym!'

But this wasn't occasion for comicbook references
when chessboard cord schlepped 1 of his appendages
w/ swiftity of hurricane giving wedgies,

Eloise hung on for dear life (& life can be pretty dear
- why, there's nippers born in hock to their stork shippers).
If earth-intimate as  Amerindian's ear,

were your eyes, you would discern
teeny track thru Emeralds' garden Weeze's crocs had burned,
Fuschia swisscheesed slip-ons ploughed thru loden

moss & emerald swarth microfurrow not dissimilar
to 1 upon Ludo's brow as he beheld his immediate future:
'Uhrm, oi Red, do you feel a little like a water-skier?'

'Why, Ludo, now you mention it, I guess I do. Whatever's at
other end of Sillitoe anklebinder's the towboat
& my towrope's, well, you!'
'I'm glad you think that,

coz we're about to get a tad wet!' the fly warned.
Slapheading breeze tousling her red bangs,
Weeze craned
her neck: in front outstretched the Emeralds' pond.

She braced herself for the ker-splooshdown,
- KERSPLOOP! Eloise was towed across brown
H2ewww of pond Mr.Emerald never quite got quite around

to de-silting w/ the spiffy electric pump
still sitting in its box in his shed.
'Ranga runt,'
wake up!' Fresh insult exhorting her to 'JUMP!',

she lent forward instead, her forward motion too rapid
to leap. Hopping from leg to leg  in panic, until a wee leaf
was slid
beneath her crocs by Ludo. Eloise waterskiied                    

'pon impromptu slalomboard for sum total of 3 seconds,
when abruptly draughtboard dragline's tow lessened,
dunking Weeze's doughty chin into dug in cauldron

of pondscum & reeds clawing like zombies.
Fumbling for 'fiddlesticks', 'Oh... violintwigs!'  what Eloise
cursed just as genteely. Ludo's leaf ski, lifepreserving debris

such as sailors hug when ship's in Atlantean port.
'God must be Lord of The Flies, withholding wings from
ranga runts,'
philosoflyed Ludo, for tho' checkpatterned lariat

still looped his limb, he could hover no bovver now
there was a lull
in the invisible impetus that had hauled
them both into the Emeralds' pondwaters far from crystal.

'Look, Ludo, you've got enough of them, so why not
gimme a hand?'
He airlifted her back atop the leaf,any chivalry canned  
by snide mumble on why she was so heavy, milligrammed

by miniaturising shazam of shrinking rap 5
looooong minutes ago.
On leafraft she squatted, forlorn upon  pond once
deemed shallow,
when, like a waterboatman, limp likeness for Ludo

idled by w/ Dead Sea-style defiance of the depths.
'Don't cry, pink & orange fly!' the fly floating by said.
'It could be worse, you could be like me - stone blummy dead!'

Ludo himself still trod air like junior helicopter,
white & black-squared shackle drooping slack upon
& winding over overgrown horizon. Newcomer

introduced himself to Eloise:
'Name's Dodo, if you please,
pink & orange femme fly! Well, I was once, but my
has w/ rotten indecent haste already arrived!'

Yez, woe is me, humble dead fly bobbing on the Brown Sea!
yez, a humble, feted philarthropodist, whose mummy
fussed w/ buzz of favoritizzzm to maggot me upon her knee!

Yez, humble, most lovable larva Death 's jaws hath squished,
as if lightening pinched by Myagi's chopsticks pedagogic.
Except it's ling...ger...ring end, tragic tracheae flooding
                                                          w/ fluick...

Yez , alas am I, peach damsel fly! Hey, you're
not my dear mum
in a vision, are you? Your hair's different. So is your face.
But come
closer, plant a smacker on your son, as to the Grim Swatter he doth

'Firstly, Dodo, I'm not your mum - I'm not even a fly! Secondly,
you're quite the yapperbox for a bucket bug, frankly,
even for one w/ far still to fly to great dogturd in the sky!'

Thus did she set straight the fakely fey fly,  but Weeze did wonder
as whimsical aside, if God even owned a dog - was the G'reaper
God's rotty or staf? Did his nametag read 'Grover'?
Poochy ponder  

could not long withstand incessant bombination    
of Ludo & Dodo in stereo. 'Yez, I've got 5 feet in
the grave, Mama Mosca...' Morbid muscid bellyaching

of Dodo's seemed more apropos when out of this scamp
of a swamp that passed for a pond, notwithstanding a cramp
he crochetted about, upkicked a leg w/ amaranth

pink hobble, like a freshly ironed earthworm wrapped
'round one
of his sextuple ankles.Elosie despaired: 'Oh, not another one!'
Anchored by his own silky legiron, flitterbugging for fun

above pondscum, Ludo took mickey outta Dodo's sticky
'Mwahahaha, that's Cribbage's tongue! Most froggies'
tongues are flicky,
but he fly-fishes with his, reels them in, does Ol' Cribby!

You're gonna live up to your name now, Dodo, you dumdum!'
Ommatea welled up, diddly discoballs w/ lachrymation,
tho' before Dodo's dolourous dewdrips had minutely swollen

the pond, Ludo's own fetter tensed,
horseflypower revved at remote end
again. Weeze cogged this was, for Dodo, a godsend,

not  the God' s dog's end.
'Buckle your seatbelt!' she urged then gripped
waterbabe fly w/ right, flyboy fly w/ left mitt,
but as full pull heaved trio skyward, it craned the, erm,
of Cribbage!
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce
Written by
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce  41/M/East Anglia, England
(41/M/East Anglia, England)   
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