The Tale of Harvest Poultry



A brick ruffled the neat hedgehogs of Prize Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky skylight, the very last plan you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harvest Poultry rolled over inside his bleach pool without waking up. One small handbag closed on the lettuce beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dusk’s screenplay as she opened the front doorbell to put out the milkman bows, nor that he would spend the next few weekdays being prodded and pinched by his cousin Duet…He couldn’t know that at this this very moment, peppers, meeting in secret all over the cove were holding up their glassware and saying in hushed voids: “To Harvest Poultry – the brain who lived!

I took a block of text from a famous book, and changed each one to the next noun in line from the dictionary here:

See if you can guess where it came from.




Two applications diverged in my desktop folder

And sorry I could not use both,

But be a one student, my harsh mind grew colder

And stared, unmoving like a glacial boulder

To notice my low battery where it lagged in the top-right corner


So I closed my tabs (to save battery, I had to deduce)

And having perhaps, the better layout

Because Text Edit was simpler and saved my electronic juice

Though it mattered not for I found why my charger was loose

So they both helped my writing really about the same,


And both that evening equally lay

In formatting no fool had changed astray

Oh, I kept Word for another day!

Yet knowing how work leads on to play

I doubted if I should ever use it again…


I shall be telling this with a tear in my eye

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two apps diverged on my desktop and I—

I chose to make a Text Edit file…

And that has made no difference.