Every little breeze


“Mister Mayor. The townspeople are expecting a speech.

“A speech? What for? Look around you. It’s a lovely day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the crickets are chirruping in the fields; everything is beautiful in the world. Why would I want to spoil all that to give a boring speech?”

“Because it’s your job, Mister Mayor. It’s what the people expect. It’s why they’re all gathered here in the square.”

“But it will be a political speech. How boring is that?”

“The elections will take place next weekend, Mister Mayor. If the townspeople don’t re-elect you, you won’t be mayor any more. You won’t have a job. The opposition will be in power.”

“Does all that matter? The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the crickets are—”

“Yes, Mister Mayor, we’ve been through all that. Just deliver the speech we prepared, fire the villagers up, get them into our corner, then the mayor’s seat and the council will be ours and won’t fall to the opposition.”

“But does that matter? Does it really matter? The sun is shining, the—”

It matters. Do you want those people to undo everything we’ve devoted the last decade to building up? Have you seen their plans for education, for housing, for policing?”


“Then it’s a good job some of us have read their manifesto, and understand the devastating effect their plans would have on the town.”

“Can’t you win the election without me? I find the whole business so tiresome.”

“Would that we could, Mister Mayor. Would that we could. The simple fact is the people love you; they relate to you; you inspire them, although goodness only knows how. For Pete’s sake they listen to what you say the way they don’t listen to the rest of us; the ones who formulate the policies and do the work. So, if not for yourself then for us, just knuckle down, buckle down and do it, do it, do it!”

“Can’t I sing just one song first? You now the little people like to hear me singing.”

“God give me strength. Go on, then. One verse of one song.”

“♫ Each time I see a little girl
Of five, or six, or seven
I can’t resist the joyous urge
To smile and say —”



“You can’t sing Thank Heaven for Little Girls!”

“Why ever not?”

“It may have been acceptable in 1957, when it was written, but this is 2021! You can’t sing that kind of song now. You just can’t. It’s highly inappropriate. You’ll have all the parents up in arms.”

“How about Louise?”

“What about her?”

“Not the little girl, Louise, the song. It’s even older than Thank Heaven but can’t upset anyone, surely?”

“Start it, and I’ll let you know.”

“♫ Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise,
Birds in the trees seem to twitter Louise,
Each little rose tells me it knows I love you, love you. ♫”

“Lovely, Mister Mayor. Now the speech?”

“Now the speech.”

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 309 published on this site.

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