Cup'N'String

Old O.M. trotted livered 'long the lakefront, looking: no, no, not there.

'Twas somewhere to be found, to be certain, but what and where?

'Twas not for old Orange Marmalade to know, least not presently.

Toast was a sailor.

He ran away form home before he was old enough to take out a proper line of credit.

So now he was a sailor.

Not that that paid any better or anything.

He sang songs about hard times.

I been doing some hard traveling, he sang, I thought you know'd.

But then realized he'd been doing no such thing.

He was landlocked.

This is what old O.M. had been looking for all along: landlocked lovers, moored migrators.

She just didn't know it yet.

But she will.

Oh yes, she surely will.



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