As I watched the funeral cortege pass down the street with its escort of flashing blue strobe lights, silent clapping crowds and lowered flags, I remembered… So many young men… and not just ours,

Transform from working man to rock god, I stole the show, what a lucky sod.

IP 200 words.

A short story without any idea of the future.

There is nothing of interest in this poem.

finished

DR PESASTRA’S DISASTER Dr Pesastra was in a muddle. He had run out of bandages to bandage his patients’ fingers and thumbs.

Dance, dance little spirit On a line of a silken web Like strings on a glass guitar And pluck notes of sleep