Because the deadline is 10th June

There are legs encased in a cement carpet
Or pale, fleshy limbs in khaki shorts,
Gleaming in the sun.
There is spirit in fire, wire in bone,
Or sad-shell bodies, crumbling a-minute,
Face-down on the grass.
Sitting on creaking plastic pews, the
Soaring breakfast voices, or tart sugar,
Flowing under flickering eyelids.

*um.*

No wonder there were 27 Gs in my last GP essay.
I finished reading The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues by Ellen Raskin. Who is Roy G. Biv? (This is a trick question.)
There was an unlucky golfer who was attacked by a nasty wood-acting crocodile recently when he wandered around the reeds looking for a lost ball. My mum told me about an exciting documentary she watched where a water-snake (a water-snake? Is there anything you'd less like to be attacked by?) swallowed a croc whole. The croc didn't see it because he had his golf-ball-like eyes above the water surface, searching for prey.
The world is a frightening place.