The beat had set Parrot’s claw a-tappin’, but he was worried lest Rufus would get a cold in the Swiss air without his helmet.
Doris was amazed at what came out of her new toy. Her harp paled by comparison.
Parrot watched as the big red pencil decided the fate of the supplicants.
Seven billion and counting, thought Parrot. Why?
Parrot was perturbed and the marmelade cat was worried. One man’s meat was another man’s cannibalism.
Betty wrestled with the title: “The Physical Impossibility of a Parrot Divided in the Mind of the Observer.” Surely a better solution would have been: “Psittacine Tryptich”?