Plop Goes the Weasel

Plop

starofsorts

 

“Plop goes the weasel.” So the childhood rhyme does not state. More like ‘pop,’ but who am I to differentiate? Merriam? Webster?  To say either would be to both lie & exaggerate.

I’m just this singularity of a soul still dwelling in the same body from years of ol’.

Both having grown a tad since way back when. “I’m going to be a GENIUS someday,” so claimed the sticker on my sister’s bedroom door, written – no less – in pen.

Who’s to say she was / is wrong? It’s her music. Her dance. Her song.

From my perspective, she may be right. And I’m glomming on to her admonition. With zero guilt, remorse nor contrition. For I got this gift of transposed fancy flight. A kindly sort of hind sight / blind site puling me too & fro both loose and tight.

Still: ‘I have no dog in this fight.’ Just my fingers tapping out the dish they’re being served not later; not ‘then’; not ‘when’ but right now as each letter and word alight.

Some may say “What in the heck does any of this have to do with ‘plop?’

I say: pretend you’re a passenger. Along for the flight. A twinkling star on a starry night.

If you’re game for a game then let’s wrap up this tome:

“This old man, he played ten;

He played knick-knack once again,

With a knick-knack paddy-whack,

give a dog a bone,

this old man came rolling home.”

NOTE: The aforementioned SOCW {stream-of-consciousness-writing} in response to: ‘Plop,’ word-of-the-day-prompt.

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