A multitude of hats leaps from place to place, from house to house, from star to star and spin on carnival merry-go-rounds, climb fire escapes of burning windmills and lean on windowsills all the time yak yak yakking the facts and memories and anecdotes and hugs and kisses of the party God gives them.

The Mad Hat (ter)

I said, “I don’t think.”
“Then you shouldn’t talk” said the hat.

I said, “Have I gone mad?”
The hat said, “You’re entirely bonkers. All the best people are.”

I asked, “Why is a cockatoo like a pot of tea?”
The hat said, “I give up. What’s the answer?”
I replied, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”