On that morning, Chapel was set for five nuptials: first, second, third, ours, and fifth.
Registries, rings, robes, and candles.
First couple, second couple, third couple, a stout flax-haired girl/lady/woman and I, then fifth couple.
First, second, third couples: quills, kisses, smiles and sighs.
Stout flax-haired girl/lady/woman and I:
Mme. Sly: . . .you don’t hold the pen like that! You should smile!
Why is your signature so ugly?! I attended third-grade only, yet have a fine signature! No, you can’t . . .
I: I am tired, I really am!
Vicar: O, yes, lady, do you see he is bushed? I will get that twig, demand you stoop, and whip you!
Fifth couple: Holy sire, we are not sure we want to proceed. We hate blood and wine. We hate this chapel too!
Toast:
O fair ladies,
Another thing they say of life is that it is unfair
But when we think of you, we strike up balance, and that feels like death.
Tell us, can we love you here, should we love you here, the way you are?
Or until we see you fully before death?
Reblogged this on Writers Book Diary.
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