pinka, pinka, pinka, pinka, pinka
or
A Pink Train, a man in gray
The small train was painted a glaring Pink, not flamingo, but close. The man in gray perched on the front car of the train with his mailed feet dragging alongside in the gravel. As the whistle blew, three short blasts, the train slowed, and came into the loading area.
The man in gray lifted himself from the train and stepped over towards the growing crowd, he turned, and planted a solid kick with his mailed foot, into the now stopped pink engine. It toppled from the tracks, a dint in it's side.
As the crowd looked uncertainly on, he righted the car, putting it back on the tracks. The low hum of the engine, attested to it's continued health.
hey pinkster, how is Mom ?
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