After a painting by Stokes which is displayed in the Musée d'Orsay. When vocalized, it starts on a high C and descends.
This is what I consider to be my best period of writing. The trouble is that it's only four pages of a work forty times that long. There are about half a thousand puns in here, most of which only I would get. It should be taken in context, but it's not. Actually, the parts that should come just before it haven't been written yet. I meet my own characters. I think of myself as Amy, here, but I haven't introduced myself as Amy for a long time, so only childhood friends call me that. And I'm dealing with a big change in the way I best know how: by trying to show how bizarre I can be. The actions here are not something I have ever done.
I wrote this when I was about eight years old - hence the length. And the plot. But I'm feeling nostalgic today, so I'll put it up anyway.
My epic. So to speak. A long poem that actually has a plot, and my favorite completed work. Some people seem to find it odd that I have it memorized. The tune is a slightly mangled version of 'Hush, Little Baby.' After I wrote it, it seemed to have a bit of an environmental theme. Now and again, I try to think how I could make the rhythm a little smoother.
At the end of a war of the world, two sisters try to resolve differences to their own benefit.