|PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot|
Sing a song of sixpence
A pocket full of rye
“Putain!” Monsieur Auguste gave a one fingered salute to the birds.
“Imbecile flying turd buckets,” he muttered angrily.
It hadn’t always been like this. The leisurely walk to work from his quarters to main kitchen had been a source of pleasure. The immaculate gardens with its beautiful flowers always gave a reason to smile. That happiness was then reflected in the food he created.
But for the past year the avian menace was getting to him.
“What’s for dinner?” inquired the King.