Poppy is Seven

Me: How is the birthday girl?

Nell: Enjoying a scone with Malcolm before the festivities start.

Me: The Welsh corgi choir were on form this morning.

Nell: Yes. Sunday songs had a distinct medieval feel to them.

Me: I liked their pointy hats.

Nell: They shouldn’t really have been wearing cardigans over their robes but Rupert insisted they keep warm as it’s unseasonably cool for June.

Me: He’s such a caring wolf and ever so handsome in his knitted chain mail.

Nell: Yes. I noticed.

Me: Poppy always looks good in a crown.

Nell: She’s decided to wear it all day.

Me: I found some sweet photos of you two by the way.

Nell: We were a lot younger then.

Me: I know but I just love them. You have such a caring face. You’ve always protected Poppy.

Nell: And I always will. Would you like to hear my poem?

Me: Yes, please.

Nell: ‘Now I overheard David just saying to Kevin

‘Everyone’s dancing because Poppy’s turned seven.’

‘ Seven?’ I said. ‘Now how can that be?

The last time I looked I’m sure she was three.’

‘No, she’s seven alright’, he replied with a grin.

And he put on his hat and started to spin.

There was whirling and twirling

And bouncing and bowing

And no sign of biting

Or raging or rowing.

There were biscuits, cakes and scones galore

And all sorts of treats you can hold in your paw.

Everyone was happy as happy can be

Because nobody argues with fearsome Poppy.

She’s funny and feisty and she never sits.

She’s our special Poppy and we love her to bits.’

Me: That’s perfect. I hope everybody does get on.

Nell: They will. Remember, Poppy has her sword and she’s not afraid to use it.

Me: Of course. Sorry.

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