On Observer’s Trail

When You Lose the Plot

Seven Lilliputians left their island

In arduous search for seven brides

Far and wide, they roamed

Over seven seas and countries, seven

Alas found none would have them

After seven more fruitless years

Long beards grown snow white

Feeble minds on boots warn out

Why only leave the island

In the first place

Worst to come yet callous men

Had little ones snared one by one

Next snap-frozen off to marketplace

Sold off as garden gnomes.