Back in the day, when ladies were ladies and dogs flew away...

I remember when ladies were ladies, and dogs flew all day, the birds lived in fear of the winged little hounds who'd hover by nests and howl through the treetops. But then as the ladies grew tired of cleaning the ceilings of dog fur and mud, they tempted the little winged hounds back to the ground with big bowls of meat, and leashed them tight so they'd get used to more temperate heights. The easy meat and lack of exercise went straight to their paunches and soon they could barely hover above the ground. Now they dragged in the mud all over the floors, but the ladies thought, "at least we don't have to climb up a ladder to clean the ceiling anymore."

He was a reformed cat burglar,

He was a reformed cat burglar. He’d done his time, he’d picked up carpentry and he was on the straight and narrow. But sometimes memories of past thrills on roof tops, balancing by window sills and clutching onto gutters flooded his thoughts. On such days, he would cancel his appointments and drive through the streets, scouting out high up places.

When he found a run down window, crooked on its hinges with flaky patches of paint and crumbling corners of rotting wood, and high enough to satisfy his cat burglar standards, he would screech to a stop. He’d strap on his belt, stretch his old balaclava over his head (it still fit like a glove!) and so he’d start his ascent, heart racing, grinning like a fool in love. Once he reached the window, he checked out the cracks and gaps in its frame, pushing here and there with his left hand whilst clutching the roof tiles with his right. Then he would take out his tools and begin his work, perched on the gutters, no scaffolding to diminish the thrill. He would glance round nervously to make sure no one caught him sanding down the wood, filling in the holes, resetting the window, repainting the frames, and securing the roof tiles, until the window looked good as new and he sneakily descended back to his van unseen.

A seemingly inevitable, but unfortunate event.

The loud frightened gasps disturbed the quiet Sunday morning air. That moment each one of them shared the same thought, and chills ran up and down the seven rigid spines that trailed Louis the Horse. Patches the Dog (who enigmatically had no patches in his pitch-black coat) spotted the little thing first. Bert's eyes glanced down at it, causing his hands to tighten on Louis's reigns. Frank, seated next to Bert, and a pessimist at heart, had already resigned himself to the terrible event that was about to ensue. Mary, together with her pet koala, froze at the thought, and Elizabeth tried to shield little Louise from the inevitable bloodshed.
Each one of them, including Charles the Koala (who was notoriously short-sighted), had spotted the tiny little puppy precariously ambling by Louis's left leg, and their thoughts jumped simultaneously to Louis's blinders, his clumsy and graceless tread, and how to wash blood out of pristenely white fur.

'Old Junier's Cart'
Henri Rousseau

I found a boy on the rocks

I found a boy on the rocks.

His politician's parting negated his cherub lips,

And though he appeared lost, out of place,

I saw, beneath his cape, a cage,

And ran ran ran, til break of day,

Lest he should trap - and steal me away.









'Boy on the Rocks' - Henri Rousseau

No no, it wouldn't do.

He, a high ranking army officer. She, a scarecrowette with luscious, if somewhat dry, golden hair. It was a case of forbidden love, for while they could meet among the reeds or deep within the forest, it simply wouldn't do to rendezvous without the cover of tree trunks and thick foliage. "No no, it wouldn't do", said he, caressing her strawy hair, while she searched his army eyes for a commitment that simply wasn't there.

Henri Rousseau, "Rendezvous in the Forest"

A frightfully original, trendy individual.

"I," Monsieur X began to lisp, "am my own inthpirathion!" His pinky ring and fez indeed gave the appearance of a frightfully original trendy individual. Yet for the inquisitive and independent eye, such as mine, it was plain to see that his distinctive little moustache was quite blatantly plagiarized from his constant companion, a cat. This cat, I began to suspect, was the real source of Monsieur X's notorious sense of fashion...







Henri Rousseau, "Portrait of Monsieur X"