Suffering from withdrawal symptoms from stories about confused platypuses after the last week, especially the last weekend? We have the perfect antidote: a poem from author Nilanjana S. Roy to cheer you up.
I’m confused said the Platypus
Could I march with a spittoon and spit in a platoon?
Could I at the right latitude get away with a platitude
(Even if it exudes prattitude)?
Could I cure a plague (bubonic) with a love (platonic)
Or would I expire without a suitable tonic?
Could I be gated if I daringly dated an armadillo, electroplated?
Must I unravel when I travel, overdose on gateaux
And then atone by scaling an Alp and a plateaux?
Being a platypus means so much fuss;
If only I
Had been born a platypi,
Or, however preposterous, a platyposterous.
This is not, not, not part of the Flash Fiction contest!