John is more of a clamberer; bumbling into stacks of old Weekend Telegraphs and running round corners into prams. John wins surprise packets; splashes after Bombay swans and eats pigeon pie.
Open your eyes: say “Water”.
“Water you mean?”
Down in the suburbitron, where the trains and the ladies and February trickle past, John twiddels and tumbles.
Open your eyes: say “Tumbler”.
“Tumbler in cider.”
All the time, John is not a blunderer; he is standing with a tabby cat. Open your eyes: say “Jennifer Martyn.”
“Whacko for John.”