A Poet's Plea

Your Honor:
Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury:

I humbly lay my plea my innocence upon the mercy of the court. I beg you find me blameless in this precarious position of mistaken identity.

You see, dear Ladies and Gentlemen, I cannot possibly have taken, much less eaten, the last two cookies from the cookie jar. I know by my frightenly gaunt appearance, I seem visibly a likely candidate for such a delicious endeavor, but alas, kind Sirs and Madams, this is not the case. I am but a poor poet, a writer. Food is an unimportant commodity to the likes of one such as I. My mind is filled with notions of dragons and quests, ladies with glass slippers, and lovers fallen upon their breast. I have not the time to listen to the lowly rumblings of my earthly being whilst my mind is conjuring great wonders with words that wallow and waif within and around my head! My hand favors only that utensil of the pen, an ink well my bowl. Together they feed my paper delicious tid bits, hopefully for others to see and enjoy. Be that what it may, if not the words for public viewing, I must purge my soul and circumstance of the toxins of emotions seeping, sweating through my pores and surging from my soul!

Crumbs? In my bed and on my person? Ha! Those were not crumbs, my Lords and Ladies. I was sitting in the cook’s garden not far beyond the herb patch, amongst the pepper trees. I was listening to the song of the mockingbird, and inhaling the freshness of the summer afternoon when a sudden breeze of realization shimmied across the yard blowing midsummer snow, hundreds of tiny white flowers swirling from their branches, covering the terrace with a lacey distinction. Though I believed to brush most of these fascinating featherlike flowers off my frock, few remained as crumb-like evidence. My coat later laid upon my bed, also dropped these tiny tassels. I present, your Honor, a handful of these white flowers, gathered today from the kitchen garden.

Milk. Your Honor, Ladies and Gentlemen, I could not and would not dare to partake of such a udder liquidation. You see, your Honor, I am lactose intolerant. In other words, milk makes me spit, gag, a post nasal drip the likes of which would cause great discomfort to any of the great noses of Mount Rushmore!

‘Ahh..’ you may ponder, …the underlying reason when called attention to whether twas I who stole the cookies and ‘mmfmfmfmm’ *swallow* my impacted answer, “Gagging on a piece of his own cud, he was, whilst swallowing the cookies” may be your thinking, but this is not the case. Neither twas cookie nor cud, it was a fly.

Please, be still your groans of disbelief. A coincidence far fetched but true! You see, as your so called ‘credible witness’ spied me and called me on thieving the cookies, my mouth gaped open at such a preposterous pointing of fingers. How dare one accuse the likes of me! As distasteful as this may seem, a dratted fly flew, on great quest, directly into the back of my orifice causing me to gag, and ultimately gulp the winged beast down.

Guilty, yes, to the claim that earlier in the day I did exclaim “Hey look—cookies!” A mere moment of mortal madness. However, I had no true desire to manifest the morsels in my digestive system, and momentarily forgot about them altogether as the beauty of the morning sunlight glinting on rows of unsuspecting cleaning bottles stole my romantic eye.

In conclusion, your Honor, and good judgmental members of the jury, all evidence gathered against me, although seeming overwhelmingly true, is false. I did not take or eat the last cookies, or any cookies from the cookie jar. I did not partake of any milk or dairy product from the fridge. ‘Crumbs’ were mere flowers from pepper trees in the cooks garden, and my ‘mmfmfmfmm’ *swallow* was caused by the unfortunate death of a ill-fated fly. I trust I have proved my innocence beyond a shadow of your doubt.

I humbly bid you good day, and good cookies!

Quizmo LaGrande,
Proud Knight of Wild Eyes Tamar's Clan in The Gauntlet!