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Kate's Wedding
by Peter Wakefield Kitcher

Some weeks ago as I stood there, perhaps at home, I don’t know where, some random thoughts passed through my head about a couple to be wed.
I thought, “How nice for me, to give a short narration that folks would love some scandal that they’d hear on this occasion.”
I’m sure that all those present here would love to know some scandal, since at the last wedding when I spoke, the bride went off the handle.
I have a funny mind, you see, that started at my mother’s knee. I was, I suppose, a little brat, but at this time, I won’t go into that.
So Jay is OK, I have no proper knowledge. He has a brain, I think. He probably went to college.
It was the girl named Kate, on whom I wish to concentrate. Aha, I thought, I’ll really make her think. As long as I remember not to have too much to drink.
I sat me down one day and took my pen and then began to write of Where? and When? But after several hours my mind was bare. The bad occasions, if they were truly there, were few and far between and really rare.
“Oh, little Katie, isn’t she so sweet!” You’d hear the neighbours chatting on the street.
My darling little grandchild in my arms, and I’d join in with everybody’s charms.
I sat there, thinking hard but nothing came. She made so few mistakes that I could blame.
And then it came to me. There was a little time that would enable me to close this little rhyme.
My memory’s clear. There was this little girl. I think twixt three or four, her feet well planted, firm upon the floor, her hands so set upon her hips and shouting through those charming little lips, were words I cannot say, on this, her wedding day. My brain awhirl. “Is this the child we’ve brought into the world?”
And then, I saw, in front of her, little Katie’s mother, her arms akimbo, and saying words I couldn’t understand, while I stood there, in limbo.
So there you see the picture. Daughter, mother, and then, to add to the drama, grandmother - my wife. Hands on hips, all three of them in a row, looking over each other’s shoulders, unaware of the show.
If there’s blame to give, I really shouldn’t bother. As you can see, her envied characteristics were derived from me.
So, Jay, I’ll just be nice and give you my mature advice. Yes, Jay, if you see Kate, her arms akimbo, just grab her there and throw her through the window.
And now, “Good Wishes, Jay,” the luckiest of men. To Kate, “I love you, toadly” There is no rhyme for toadly. To both of you, the only other thing, I guess, is to wish you “Everlasting Health” and “Every Happiness.”