Trotterless, it makes its way
down the promenade on a quartet of springs
kindly provided by the Stroud chapter
of the St Cuthbert's Benevolent Society
(albeit unsolicited).
It is happy,
that is to say,
happy as an atheist can get,
winking at children in their winter mittens,
saying hello to the florist.
It always reads its horoscopes
(a Gemini, natch)
and strains to make them fit.
Just a little magic, that's all it's asking for.
Something a little unusual.
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