Once upon a long, jean skirt, and a hermitesque homeschooled existence, there was a town. Not on the map was this town, but our map was built upon this town. Crafted annually by machete and push mower until the grooves in the earth no longer required assistance, it was our kingdom. It had a name, a monarch, residents, and most importantly, a spoken and written language all its own. Nestled amongst a stand of grass and sumac trees, it was the fairyland of the century. We each had a designated dwelling. Old mattress springs, the top of a small incline, a matted area surrounded by saplings: these were our mansions. Our sustenance came from the garden growing nearby.
Alas! There is no pictorial documentation of the existence of this dynasty, but since when is there proof of magical kingdoms?
The spoken language consisted of sound much like the English language. However, the alphabet was transposed, the consonants and vowels, respectively. As for the written language, a secret code was drawn up, with which the several of us became quite adept at communicating. However, fluency in the spoken language remained in the infant stages.
A limerick was penned. Whether it could be called the National Limerick is doubtful, but to this day, whenever I intend to form a poetic verse of this variety, it is inevitably blocked by the nostalgic repetition of said stanza.
There once was a man from Secrane
Who took a long trip on a plane.
Not wanting to fly
So high in the sky
He traveled back home by train.