Barnaby Wilde has honored us again with this only slightly insane tale in verse form. Not only is he well within the 200-word limit for this challenge, he has made his story even more difficult for himself by doing so in verse - and rhyming verse, at that. My only question is if this story is, indeed, fictional...or autobiographical.
©2013, Barnaby Wilde
‘Fancy Dress essential,’ the invitation said.
The Theme was printed just above the ‘Fifty quid a head.’
‘Admission is restricted to those in masquerade.’
(Please ensure that cheques are crossed and monies promptly paid).
Now despite the allegations that a nasty few purport,
I deny that I have ever been the party pooper sort.
I phoned around for ages to locate the right disguise,
And it was no easy matter finding something in my size.
I realised my error much too late to make retreat,
Though awareness had been dawning as I walked in from the street.
I could see into the ballroom as we shuffled into line,
To be announced at the reception and collect our glass of wine.
There were ministers and councillors and minor screen celebs
Dressed as legionnaires and senators, centurions and plebs.
Magistrates and chancellors cocooned in double sheets,
Impersonating emperors, with sandals on their feet.
The flunkey looked me up and down as I removed my cloak,
And did a sort of double take before at last he spoke.
‘My Lords and Ladies,’ he began, then loudly cleared his throat,
‘The Dyslexian Ambassador, … accoutred as a goat.’
Top that! I dares ya!