Today was one of those days in which nothing seemed to go right. Nothing major, mind you. Silly things like jeans not sitting comfortably, or being unable to find a particular pair of shoes, or banging my own knee off the side of the footrest on my wheelchair. All tiny, insignificant things, but things that drove me to “take to my bed”, like a Southern Belle who’s got the vapours or some such.
And so, because I was tired and needlessly cranky, I fell asleep and am now completely unfit to wow you with a new poem, and so here were are day 6 and it’s reruns already. But if I was not incapacitated, today would be one of those days I would enjoy making soup. I loved making soup, very basic, very comforting. Actually, today would probably be one of those days the soup wouldn’t work either, grumble grumble.
Ah well. As the Southernest of Belles said: “Tomorrow is another day!”
In which I interpret Shakespeare loosely, because I think all the twisted sisters were doing here was trying to decide what to make for supper.
Willy’s original handiwork is featured first, followed by my scribblings.
Act IV, Scene 1
A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
View original post 379 more words