I remember a story about a princess who said she would marry the prince who could bring her something that was both soft and hard at the same time.
The first brought her a peach. The second brought her an egg. One brought her water
and another unzipped his fly. One brought her a mirror.
She ran off with a lady in waiting named Linda. They moved to Sorrento where the air
is mauve. Often when I cross the lake I see them dancing the soft shoe in silk cerulean slippers.
Linda murmurs, I used to be molsh but now I am milisc.
The princess is persuaded. Thou art gravicembalo col piano e forte, my little Linda-mjukr-pussy.
Linda purrs. Lasche, she sighs, lasche. And sleeps. Dreaming mellow yellow.
The Princess Malgham is mollified, momently. But as the days go by she is faded, wraithe-like: malakos. Linda offers Neufchâtel, malted milk and miel.
While Linda snoozes, Malgham dons an homberg hat and a meershaum like a weekvisch, a mama's boy, and slips out the side door. She will buy moufflet for Linda. Pussywillows and linimentum. Zayzafun from Persia.
Linda awakes to find the princess gone, her cerulean sandals gone, her meershaum gone, and her homberg. She sighs. And softly weeps. Oh my little mignon. My sweet bogach. I am yogush without you. She swoons. Blood rustles as it slips from her arteries.The princess
loses heart. Without Linda, she is gemæltan. To Ionia she will go, taking the prince's mirror.
