The other night, I almost hit a goose on my drive home from work. It wasn’t my fault—it was dark, and the goose never honked at me. I swerved and blurted, “Oh, geese!” Narrowly avoiding catastrophe, I looked back and noticed a few fluffy goslings on the side of the road. This particular goose was both a gander and a mother. If I had hit her, I wouldn’t have known what to do. I probably would have freaked out and sped off, leading the police on a wild-goose chase. I could just see the headlines: “Mother Goose Killer on the Loose.”
Determined to avoid jail, I’d concoct a plan. First, I’d make like Jack be Nimble and head over to Jack and Jill’s house. I’d have to get Jack out of the picture by making it look like an unfortunate accident—maybe push him down a hill. When the cops came around asking silly questions like “Who Killed Cock Robin?” and “Where is Thumbkin?” I’d ensure Jill didn’t turn into Little Bo-Peep and spill the beans, or else I’d risk ending up like Humpty Dumpty after the fall.
To fund my life on the run, I’d start a gang with Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son, and embark on a spree of pig thefts. But eventually, I’d have a change of heart—a Queen of Hearts, if you will. Realizing if ever There was a Crooked Man, it was me. I’d remember What My Mother Said and with a heavy heart, I’d turn myself in and confess. And that’s how I came to be doing time for nursery rhymes.
