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Filly Fallow’s a fine fellow. He frets with the best and cajoles the worst. You may see him huddled upon that sunny hilltop where the Gillyweed and silk grass grows. High to the sky and downy soft and fresh. A favored spot for the solemn and lonesome, strident in their independence, partnering with nature and ponderous thoughts; a duet of pleasure. Here he hangs and hems his haw, holding out for heaven’s sake.

This fellow he does dress well, always with a suede jacket and vest, bowtie tied ever so lightly (though he detests the sartorial accoutrement), matching stockings on his nobby little legs devoid of those prickly stalks. A finer image has not struck you as the one he embodies. With what little he has he makes due; stubby grubby stout teapot of a man, shapely in a queer fashion, or a fashionable queer, it makes no difference. Here is man of his own right, who bellows at fate and brandies up courage for the confounding fight. The ebb and pull of society’s abrasiveness. Flowing like dust in the sunrays.

Days spent walking and exploring sights unseen. Nights are given to fanciful dances and musical reverie. Oh you should see the way this little lump sways and gyrates to make even the King jealous. Jumping and sashaying to and fro as water blips in Brownian motion. His chestnut ponytail gliding and waving about, it resembles a trotting horse giving chase. His tiny rum pum bum shaking and shilly shallying in the warm glow of the tavern. A lover of merriment he is and loved is he in these capsule moments, locked forever in the steel trap of his mind; rusty windmills in the past.

Catch him once, catch him twice, good for a laugh at the lowest price. Share a mead and a hearty meal, you’ll be glad you did when looking back in cold nights.