James sat down, thoroughly exhausted, at the foot of the oak tree. He'd been jogging around the park, and though it wasn't a violent noon sky that hung over him, the Sun still hadn't quit his daily saunter yet. Which meant that James was sweating cats and dogs, if such a thing is possible. I guess it's time to cut out on the boring introductory drudgeries of scene-description and get on with the story. Enter Poetry.
Poetry walked - rather, glided - to where James lay wheezing oxygen. He spoke - rather, wrote; or, sang; or whatever on earth personified abstracts are capable of verbing.
"Whilom thou rests so, write not a poem?"
To which James, like any man so accosted in such a physically ohmygoshimsotired state, would answer, "Oh, be quiet, and let me have a breather."
"Poetize, mortal man, and make a life."
James got up and punched Poetry in the neck. "What d'ye feel, chap?," he asked, eagerly.
"Yeo-ow-ow - a pain in the neck," Poetry whimpered.
"Well, that describes ye fairly, it does." James smiled triumphantly.
"Ever since Plato no one thwacked me like that," Poetry whined.
"Know what?" James said presently. "I'm feeling a spontaneous overflow of very powerful self-referentiality and - I gonna quit this scene... The Man With The Golden Gun is waiting for me, and next I got a James and the Giant Peach to cover. Kid near London reading it tomorrow."
"But my neck..." Poetry began to wail.
"Oh, be quiet! Don't you got any micropoem to whiz up? Go catch a blogger - them 'uns out on a lookout for such distractions. Buckle up!" James leaves.
I stop writing.
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