Mary has a little lamb whose fleece is a distinctive shade of brown and it follows her most but not all places she chooses to go.
Mary’s little lamb lay beside her on the intercity bus and attracted attention when she stopped breathing. It amazed those present how a creature so agile and lively could declutter the chaos.
Mary’s tenacious lamb would punch or shank a juggernaut in the throat for her; he’s certainly a lamb who exemplifies what happens when you choose happiness every day.
Mary’s tender little lamb permits a chunky white feline to ride around on its back while munching on broccoli.
Mary’s thoughtful lamb ran and would run again and again to the puffy moon and back just to keep her amused.
Mary has a little lamb who thinks that marmalade should be renamed orange parade.
Mary never kept a man, having never found one who was willing to work the land, or live in the house with a spade. The lamb knows she kept one photograph of him; her arm is linked in his, his eyes are vapid slippers on carpeted floor. Mary remembers the precise moment she became willing to lose everything and chose to live alone in her meh-loud glade. Yet when tears come, they exit her face dramatically like rain drops jump bulbous-headed from a Himalayan blue poppy.
The lamb knows when Mary is projecting the perfect facade and knows too when it needs to be razed to the ground. The lamb has a spectacular tantrum that backfires. Mary has a sprawling countryside home with adjacent stables. The lamb sequesters himself in a far east corner of a disused stable having staged a touching farewell surprise. He then waits like Bruno, her blind dog, who often paces the yard waiting for a friend to play with. He learns to speak as the darkness gathers and his heart gets achy. Mary’s stupid lamb makes a mistake that costs us all dearly and discolours his soul. He stays in that stable embittered and broken drifting to thorn in flourish while Mary scours the land for the face that used to lick her hand.
Raise your hand now if you possess any information as to the whereabouts of Mary’s little lamb. Be the comma in the pause, too much is not too little, be the shimmering wing to unsettle the bramble from the sun.