Orange sherbet and Jemima Rabbit
And of course Sherbet has an Arabian Nights feel to it, a jewel-bedecked, pale as alabaster Scheherazade swathed in the finest of rose silks, with diamonds in her hair, spinning her tales through endless nights of star-crusted velvet, veering her tale to a dreary end so it just about splutters to a certain death, and THEN with a single brilliant turn of phrase setting it adrift like a kite, to another startling level, a gasp at life, surviving another sunset. Arabian Nights, and you; and I try keep my mind on the price of oil, straight roads and chrome and glass buildings of the bustling modern Arabian city you live in, force veer it away Scheherazade-like, from thinking of how straight a nose you have, the feel of your skin, and how your curiously-slit eyes shine like diamonds in the dark. But I’m no Scheherazade else this story would have had a different ending or none, and you wouldn’t perchance have tripped, hunting for a Scheherazade to call your own, roving past high-rise towns, past marketplaces, minarets, chat rooms, and skyscrapers. I was good, I was sweet. Nice, goody-two shoes nice; why, I can make a little go a very long way: three subs, one poem one haiku, scrawled black on white. I’ve just about begun.