Cow Rite 2: Ray of Wight


Getting back into the flow of writing, mostly with wordplay and poems. I'm a creative soul, from childhood to middle age, and my joy is to produce new things the world has never seen before. I'm an educator from the USA working as a college professor of lit and music. I'm learning to love myself little by little.

Loping along the highway in a bustle of activity and a Winebagel Scampmaster, Ossiary Lefthook sprang bodily towards the Arkansas border, more or less staying upon the tarmacked line of road that went by the name of Interstate 83.2, or "The Tagliatelle Basket" of the Union. She smacked her lip with mute indignation the while, cursing above her breath about the nuisansical police cop officer person who had halted her along her way. To get so close to Sloecoach, AR from her erstwhile home in Peachbin, Rhode Island, was more than her wroth was able to wax in a calm manner. And now that she was on the way towards the Cow Rite center of the world, she would brook no further interruptions, no matter how urgent they seemed or how many tickets the parboiled upholster of the law offered her. No, sir, ma'am, not any brooks. (AR missed brooks!)

Crossing the Bollocks Brook over Midges Bridge, she bolted across the state line into the holy land of milking paradise. Sloecoach was now scant dozens of minutes away.

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Inspired by (sequel to):

The day of the Cow Rite had arrived, like a lover who had blacked out overnight and had finally come…

Cow Rite 1: The Hour Itself

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