— a reminiscence — 

 

Photo by Jessica Arends on Unsplash

 

Once up an averagely timely very nice-some-hope hippos lived in a large, airy pink house. This ear house was in the middle of nowhere (W11) but t’soil was ppooey-flirt-tile and t’air sweet. Squat in. We hipplos only dunk d’water-passed-through-eleven -bodies-before-me watair. Gradually, slowly by slow, old hippos we becomed aware of a tiny-diminution of the light, a contamination of the water and the arrival of hordes of fatabubbles totrack suits screeching and using technology like d’blacken bury, to make them appear more and yet more s s so st st st stupidly rishy.

These fatabubbles love so much sugar and hordes of flenchy fries. Their lubley pink house was made of sugar candy and one particularly hob-noxious fatabubble, who smull something awe-full of flart, name of Dave d’rave, he begnned to nibble the corner of a wall of this liddle pinko housey-housey. The hippos hated dose nibblers, especially dose fatabubble rishy nibblers, Taking a choco-break from sowing houses for tea pots, Professo Hippo interjected Anna L’Liffey righty-lefty through the sweet streets of Bed-lamb. Nosing into the corners of all the etc etc Pink’s housey-house’s walls Professo Hippo stood tall. That fixed it. Except for the smell o’door of d’rishly rishly soonas,  on the rare shot days of . Then all floor seasons in one day-day dun gone for all the so-sweaty Sons of Nibblers, Blah! Bumbug! sayeth t’Queeny of the Rave-ins rush d but all av all sort o’candy was finished that cool day in midlin-Flebruary.