the golden beetle

it was one of them last days of summer or maybe even its indian summer. laying in the grass by the lake me got overwhelmed by them rhymes of joys and it hairy head succumbed into the realm of morpheus.

sun was getting down and a chilly breeze woke me up. brief rest of the body and soul made the stomach empty and me without futher doubts proceeded towards the nearest pub for a pint of nourishing oatmeal stout and mayhaps a butter-cookie of sorts as they have 'em with ginger or maybe even delicious macadamian nuts.

there at the bar me sipping on the black nectar of them gods and eying a cookie near by. she was a ginger of a delicious age and a statue of stout country features.

at the first hallo she seemed all friendly and open. with the conversation ongoing her eyes became shifty and speech stuttering. soon she became covering her eyes and sometimes mouth with a palm and shaking them shoulders frightened. eventually she thrown a short scream like them stabbed victims do and ran away.

there i was stumbled. cannot blame it on the stout for it was only maybe her second pint... in the deepest ponder i combed over me beard only to discover a golden bug upon me fingers -- a kind of them scarabs. the wise must have erwandered in during me nap sniffing upon nutritious crumbs and drops of the last supper.


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