Insecure links, near miss

An old-fashioned foreign road

Rainbows make poor bridges, as I learned in Ireland. I rode up one side with a full pack and a goat. The red was firm, the blue was slick, and the violet gave way at once. We landed in a bog. The goat has been a strange color ever since.

Prague needed a bridge, so I lay down across the river. Carts rolled over my chest. A wedding party danced on my knees. After two days the masons finished the stone one, and I got up stiff but proud. The toll I charged paid for a lovely coat.

My best hen laid a square egg near Innsbruck. It stacked well. Builders came from miles around, and we raised the walls of a new chapel in under a month. One warm week the walls began to peep. The priest ran, and the chapel walked off.

Owls are wise only because I tutored them. For a time I ran a night school in a Bavarian oak. Geometry went well. History gave them trouble. My best pupil could recite Latin with its head turned fully backward, and it later served three dukes as a private adviser.

On clear nights the Moon used to sag over my estate. It scraped the chimneys and upset the hens. I.