The God of Small Creatures tried to hide his boredom as a tribe of harvest mice yammered on about barley, a praying mantis prayed long and loud, and a goldfish forgot where he was halfway through whatever he was going to say.
The god’s wife looked up from her knitting and pulled a face.
“I know it could be worse,” he grinned, “It could be my week to do geeks, or poets.”
“Hush. Don’t remind me. I never knew there were so many frustrated bards out there.”
He sniggered.
“It wasn’t bards you called them.”
“I only added three letters…”
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