Counterfeit

Again, apologetically I rehearse my act. “Sound to the bard,” said Rasputin as I colloquially spelled out my name again and again. “Practice makes perfect,” said the sailor as he lowered his mast and went down the gangplank into the quaint seaside village. “A perfect day for a raping,” said the Viking, who had time travelled from the 14th century and made it to dock as a queen’s magistrate’s servant. Sending his pilfered offerings into the wanton cries of the seagulls. And then at the inn. Inside, requesting a quaffing suds boat and diligently encasing the young maiden with her cries. Suddenly, and without warning, she lets out a satisfying purr chant and the mouse is away.