Internal nofollow, near miss

A foreign partridge

Nobody could shoe my black stallion, for his feet moved too fast. I ran behind him with a hammer across all of Styria. At each stride I drove in a nail. We finished at Graz, and the smith there gave me his apron and retired on the spot.

Bullets from my old musket took so long to land that I could shoot on Monday, then ride ahead and catch them on Thursday. Once I met my own ball near Graz. We nodded to each other. I bought it a small drink and sent it on its way.

Venice sat on dry land until I came to town. The streets were dusty, and the mules were rude. I pulled one plug in a cellar near the Rialto. Water came up at once. People liked it. They bought small boats, sang loudly, and forgot to ask who had done it.

Trumpets are dangerous in the wrong lungs, and mine are the wrong lungs. I blew a single note near Jericho, just for fun. Some old stones shifted. A goat fell over. A man in Damascus dropped his lunch. I put the horn away and have since kept it under lock.

Lightning struck my left boot outside Prague. I felt only a tickle.