Now here's
a riddle, a hey diddle diddle, a cock on the fiddle, got stuck in the
middle and try
try
try
not to
giggle.
A prince
with the swagger of a born again blagger, euphoric stagger, all cloak
and dagger, a wisp in the night
night
night
or carpet
bagger?
This is
the way that plots are hatched, centred on buildings that used to be
thatched, pieces brought closer, so easily matched, a scheme's not a
scheme
scheme
scheme
if easily
snatched.
Wide awake
in a land of wonder, husband and wife, their life going under, not
even together but torn asunder, without a clue all they can do
do
do
is
blunder.
One's a
puppet freed from child's fear, three friends she has, one voice she
can hear, while elsewhere a peacock with all it holds dear, takes
ancient foe
foe,
foe,
drawing it
near.
Now do
all the players stand on the stage, or are there a few who lurk off
the page, if you had the answer you'd get a fine wage, for the heart
of the Weave
Weave
Weave
is where
such questions rage.
