We Whitworths are all one. Sir Joseph Whitworth is indeed a relative of mine, as is (was) Air Commodore Whitworth who had a part in the Dambusters raids. Alas I cannot claim kin with the distinguished counter-tenor. Though perhaps...

Nice one, Graham. Lew Grade's Muppet connection feels like something of a burthen here.

Cheers Carolyn! And respect for the clever bods who posted theirs, above.

“My obsessive-compulsive wordplay starts at breakfast, when cooking porridge leads (via brose, ambrosia and gruel) to ‘Luger’. Thence, I take a shot at eating… ‘I Shot’… the porridge IS hot! Oats tinge my thoughts: gestation of ideas. Stirring it, I ponder: consistency, density… destiny. Is this my fate? Perpetual thesaurus entanglements, associations, anagrams? Who can judge? Not I, Toni. I finish my bowlful; full, bow to don a pullover with a nod and shrug.
Suddenly I look through the window: wow! din of birds… Evidently those sparrows’ ethos allows rows: spar, they do! Noisily competing for a date, a mate, nest made, eggs laid, hatching to time. A gecko scampers, as if electrified by their shocking energy (‘AC's amperage socks it to me').
Likewise until suppertime: microwave zapping pizza with pizzazz, ping! Then zzzz…
I blog keenly about myself, avid but no diva, to encourage others sharing this OCD, Doc.”

Christ, Graham, my head hurts just reading that!

When she was threatened on her blog by a Luger-wielding judge from Baden-Baden, she simply laughed it off. When he sent her a slice of gecko pizza, the little foetuses frozen in gestation inside the Mozzarella bubbles, she dismissed him as a nut-job.
But when he compared her Madame Butterfly to the twittering of a sick sparrow, the diva knew she needed to regain control of her own destiny. Pausing only to don her Queen of the Night costume, she travelled south to the German spa town and slit his throat.

Not sure if cogent applies in this case -

There are six million Lugers in Berlin.
That’s a fact – it’s not up to us to judge.
We must don our shawls and bow beneath the sky.

There are two million geckos in Harbin.
That’s the truth – it’s a fact we cannot fudge
and I’ll blog about statistics till I die.

I’ve spent my whole life waiting in gestation,
struggling in this diva nation.
It’s my destiny to love you till I die.

There are five million sparrows in Cochin.
Yes it’s true – and they do not hold a grudge
even when they end up in a pizza pie.

The great experiment is complete: mutated reptile embryos’ tailored gestation, harvesting- and successful integration! Chameleon- and python-derived mouthparts equip me to snare, despatch with poison then swallow (whole) small passing prey (a sparrow or rat) in one slick flick and gulp. Gecko skin transplants facilitate climbing; scale armour insulates: no walls nor electrified barbs hinder me! My old Kommandant would exult, had his own Luger not concluded his premature despair. In exile I perfected our project. I chuckle: recalling panicked rumours, blogs by would-be investigative divas, even news reports that my nightly excursions triggered: ‘chupacabra’, indeed! What if I find my taste now for live stock, not sauerkraut; brats rather than bratwurst; peons more than pizza? Cold-blooded? Yes; the Komodo dragon brain implant enhances ruthlessness; I remain cool under pressure. Indeed, I maintain an unblinking chill as the judge dons his robe to rule on my destiny.

Gestation was the right word for it. The embryonic idea grew inside
him like another evil about to be born. Pascal knew the only way
to convince the crime desk was to show them the body of the sparrow.
Piaf was the murderers nom-de-plume, something they all knew
from the Don’s Blog entry. What they needed now was hard evidence:
the pizza delivery had been at one AM, but after that there was little
to go on. The gecko calling card could have been left by anyone,
though it matched the tattoo. The Luger had no trace of being fired.
If he was right, the next diva to die would be Claudette; that was
her destiny, and he must stop it at all costs. Monsieur Benoit, the
judge who lived on rue St. Martine was guilty, he’d always known it...

Maria's Sister

Pizza with hair in worn proudly on bonces
Hell on a high wire, a diva who fences
Dim, feckless fellows when bouncing on springs
Such are the thoughts that a troubled mind brings!

Blog-battered starlings as bold sparrow chortles
Bought judge and paid judge pan high-handed mortals
Kangaroos answer the phone when it rings
Such are the thoughts that a troubled mind brings!

Girls with a Luger don holsters on dresses
Gecko gestation that nature suppresses
Destiny outfits all mankind with wings
Such are the thoughts that a troubled mind brings!

When the pill bites, when the truth stings
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember illogical things
And then it's assured - I'm mad!

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