This is the story of a lamp. For years there was a lamp in a living-room. I mean, of course there was a lamp. More than one, in fact. But I am talking about a particular lamp.
This lamp had a lovely bamboo-patterned, brass-colored base, and a lovely white shade. Unfortunately, the children who liked to play in the living-room often left their signatures on the poor lamp’s shade. And by signatures, I mean dirty fingerprints and the like. Flies also liked to leave tokens of remembrance behind. Little brown ones.
Eventually the poor lamp was removed from the living-room. And the poor lamp was sad. Its shade was dirty, who would ever want it? Actually, lamps can’t be sad. But you get the picture.
One day, the lamp saw someone coming [lamps can’t actually see, either]. It was me. And although the lamp’s shade was dirty, I knew it would be perfect for me, because I had a little trick up my sleeve…
This lamp had a lovely bamboo-patterned, brass-colored base, and a lovely white shade. Unfortunately, the children who liked to play in the living-room often left their signatures on the poor lamp’s shade. And by signatures, I mean dirty fingerprints and the like. Flies also liked to leave tokens of remembrance behind. Little brown ones.
Eventually the poor lamp was removed from the living-room. And the poor lamp was sad. Its shade was dirty, who would ever want it? Actually, lamps can’t be sad. But you get the picture.
One day, the lamp saw someone coming [lamps can’t actually see, either]. It was me. And although the lamp’s shade was dirty, I knew it would be perfect for me, because I had a little trick up my sleeve…