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Giraffe Patch
Kate Rancid

The wind wailed wistfully and the rain thundered and splattered its way between the jagged cloud edges. Shoals of pointy-teethed panty-liners with fins like fruit bats swam throughout the moist lagoon. Despite the aqueous predicaments of the Warple Jungle, large pod-like peelings with beepers poised, expressed undying enthusiasm and so the flaky bits crumbled and the lagoon began to disappear.

Night time was like a giant black pudding when the lights were low and

the peanuts smelling of ganders floated past the post office again.

"Not meaning to impose," said the orange lady,

"but time is of the essence and the clouds are cracking."

"Not as you believe," said the stranger,

"It is more than the tunnel in which the lemon tree lurks."

A dog with a single tail and a head like a fridge cried at the dribbling moon and a crocus faded out of view as a camera pointed at the passing armadillo and the cartoon post box jumped over a jam jar on the horizon.

A big carp with a green beard jumped from the lake shouting, "The end is nigh."

Heads began to fall.

Everything was back to normal.


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