There once was a young man, yearned to have a boat. As he grew older the boat never came near. Then in his older years a slick salesman sold him his dream. He thought.
Now stuck with a narrow boat barge and a once a year jaunt down the canal. That's what was waiting for him. Petrol was high, insurance through the roof. He saved for a year, that jaunt cost him nine hundred pounds a day.
To save his pennies for a later day the young-now-old man lived on his barge. His wife would have no part of that and left, back for her city life.
His only joy in life now was the annual Little Venice boat show over the early May Bank Holiday weekend. Others he'd also attend, some taking his boat and others he'd walk or catch a ride.
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"The challenge is broad--we are in the middle of April, and I don't intend to be picky about minor details. As long as your poem or prose poem is influenced in some way by the concepts discussed here (of the folly of the dreams of a classic snake-oil salesman J Whittaker Wright), please feel free to run with it as your Muse takes you." (instructions for the day)
My muse's ex-landlubber above had the dream and was now enduring his folly. Mrs. Jim and I attended London's Little Venice Canal Boat Show in 2013. It was an elbow to elbow affair with a carnival atmosphere. The canal boats were stretched and parked in probably a mile stretch. You might like to attend this year?