Gargoyle at Château d’Amboise (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A gibbous moon greets his guttural grunts and gesticulations. Given the opportunity, he guzzles every penny on grammar text books and gobbles them up, but greedy as he is, he cannot grasp the pronunciation and gibberish is the result. The grief has made grooves in his gaunt face. He thinks his ganoid scales gaudy, and they grant him only gloom, so he covers them in grey garments.
As he was going away from the church and the Gregorian choirs the gendarmes gawked at him without giving him the slightest gist of how to behave, even a gypsies warning about the general public would have made him grateful.
Giddy, he gingerly crept out from the graveyard when the worst group mentality gave the impression to have run its course. Now he barely dares glance towards town from his green grove.
He gulps down the memories, wipes his grubby face with the back of a great, scaly hand and grinds through another chapter of grammar.
A Bolg? 
The English Gardener
/ May 10, 2013Good grounds gone great!
W. R. Woolf
/ May 11, 2013Greeting again, I’m greatly grateful 🙂