Hopper With A Broken Wing

I write of the hopper with the broken wing, once in residence of the third room. Clad in half-torn, half-pressed garb, that was I. The dew fell and those with healthy wings drank to their satisfaction as I languished in the bla bla bla. Trash that!

I write of the times we spent hopping, wondering what lay beyond the green. The blades were a comfort those scorching days when the orange made us cringe and pant and gasp with exaggeration. I won’t write of the third room and would appreciate it if it remained closed. I lived ten years in space on ten days and don’t care to be reminded. What transpired between those wall has already left such a lasting impression on me, I would rather I lived out my life in haste! It’s so short! You have no idea!

I write of the hopper and that is I. Your one and only, I hopped too high and saw what I shouldn’t have. I hopped too high and then could hop no more. I slowed to a standstill and then everything went south from then on out. I suppose I should invest in a new campus-direction device. This one seems to be broken.