In the marble walls as white as milk, Lined with skin as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple does appear. No doors are there to this stronghold Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
“Life’s funny”, said an old friend when I bumped into him the other day. “Listen to this, I was born in March, yet I celebrate my birthday in August, and last February I married my mother”.
He was born in the month of August in a town named March, became a priest and married his widowed mother to her second husband in February (the month).