By Mister from Paris Here's grave, the desire to kitsch, in a corner of the Montparnasse cemetery. The spouses are to Pigeon beds dressed. Ms. Pigeon, high ceilings with full lights of Paris, who knows what awaits. Mr. Pigeon him, meditating over his notes. A pretentious eve angel on marital boredom. What may well be symbolic of this fun cenotaph? Ms. Pigeon dissatisfied she expects a hug from a Mr Pigeon preferring a rhyming muse tease though uncertain? Night falls, going to eat and I hear them here, the Pigeon, grumble. Making love in the dark do more entertaining, for sure. They need something new, there immediately. Invent something to sleep in the book Mr. Pigeon, a cooing modern, chili late twentieth century.
- An idea quickly, Charles, the impatient whispers to her inventor husband, quickly.
Neither one, nor two, in the dark Room, griffins Mr. Pigeon, all eyes crinkled at the edge of the white cane. The night is on them, too thick comforter.
And so and why was invented Pigeon Lamp , inexplosive warranty. To read in bed or maybe more. The paraffin lamp, a domestic farce, a commercial success, the story of unacknowledged bedside of our grandmothers.
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