“The murk shifts and stirs. Be thy for the freedom’s allure. A fantasy. Now die, by my sword!” Barnaby annouced, trimming the hedges along his driveway. Man, nothing more than cutting hedges dredges images of even ledges and balanced leisure. Trim thy hedges is thus my pleasure.
Barnaby grinned along the fence line. “A snip! There goes the whole vine! Wretched weed! Vile swine! How doth thee invade this garden of mine? Can’st thou see, he who trims hedges and shapes edges is none other than me.
By me, I mean he, blade of the park, shrubber in the dark, devourer of bush height and external asthetic plight!
I be, the one and only, the hedge and dredge trimmer, sizzling skin to simmer, a smile of glee, eater of thee and we, and the wee! Why? I am none other than Hedge-Trimmer Barnaby.
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