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!


One thought on “Nilanjana S. Roy: The Last of the Confused Platypuses

  1. The platypus was confoozed.
    She was thoroughly confounded.
    Her tail was flapping in the air
    Her bill completely grounded.
    Choices choices!
    So many voices!
    Her head was in a spin!
    How to decide which to deride
    And which story was to win?
    Twas Hobson’s Choice! Catch 22!
    So she decided to ask her cousin.
    Said Anushkaroo, “Why one, not two?
    What the heck – let’s make it a dozen!”

    (Then along came a Roy
    As saucy as soy
    With plentiful puns, all quite plucky.
    So Platty and Roo,
    Included her too,
    And exclaimed “Thirteen – ooh, that’s lucky!” )

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