series1bk3.1.3

 

The magic mirror pulls a tragic face,  grimacing at the sight it sees, representing the spent germinescent bud, freshly faded, and now but fodder for the rubbish bin. Princely treasures stacked in a heaped pile, those silent millions in the bank's echoing vault, halt my hunger not one jot when the cheques I sign are maligned as products of a forger's art. Starting to croon the tune of a song not sung, long since, I now wince at the coarse hoarseness of my cracked voice, which currently lacks a fine accent or melodious presentation.      A peacock plucked 's a sorry bird indeed,      whom none can find it worth their while to heed.