I Sir Reginald Beakington, are not to mocked.
But dared the peasent, the cook, the Sleeper of late mornings, The scribe of the glowing slab bring beforeth me, a cheap plastic chair, one of the emrald of my royal colour?
Tis not merely a colour, acquired by the wavelength that thy sees, tis disrespect of the greatest regard.
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Then thee sat on it.
Astounding! The peasent thinkest itself worthy?! Thy thinkest iteslf worthy of my royal colour?
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"Does thou desire the throne, Peasent?" I squaked in silence.
My feathers fluffed.
My beak twitched.
My perch cold with betrayal.506Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU6SdIYLNsA
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and then Add to home screen.