Stroll by the Mansions of Gloucester

I have seen the mansions of Gloucester.
On the sea where no one can see them.
Less eyeballs means it’s more rare.
Rarity is value, inherently the banker says.

I don’t say “Hi” to the caretaker. He is as busy as the bees pollinating profusely around him.

I do say “Hi” to the woman walking two dogs. “Be nice” she stammers sternly.  “Your dogs were panting politely,” I scold her. “That dog right there contains no evil. Although his bones contain trace amounts of radiation. Stop buying Purina. That’s for cats.”

She walked on discouraged.

Parents patiently perform parkour with their progeny on the parquet. The progeny is pathetic. Unlocking his potential is wasteful as his padlock requires a true master. Faster though he runs, his padfootedness is paltry.

The mansions have French names. The language of love sounds like peanut butter on the roof of my mouth. Too much tongue is unhealthy. That’s what my wife tells me.

Why is French spoken in a town of English tongue? Too much tongue is unhealthy. That’s what my mistress tells me.

Due to my bantering nature I forgot to alert you of our change. Gone are the mansions, replaced now by dwellings, houses if you will, certainly not as nice as the mansions. There are no names. They do have above in-ground swimming pools. Too much tongue is unhealthy.

One door has a dead wreath on it. Another is fire hydrant red.
There are no children dancing around it.
Those homeowners must lust for grandchildren.
Those grandchildren will look upon their grandpa and gramma with disdain and contempt.
Trying to appease your progeny is a contemptuous act they know all too well.

Millionaires are creative. Or their architects are paid handsomely. The stone carver with the private zoo is evangelical. Her inanimate animals are everywhere. Too much tongue is unhealthy.

Such a private place, and yet I can’t find privacy to attend to my natural needs.

A hawk consumed the chickadee. Is this a referendum on my marital status? The public foot path is where I leave my mark. Every flower is a daffodil if it’s April.