The Louvre Heist
🦩 “Four Minutes in the Louvre” — by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo
I was sipping absinthe by the Tuileries gate,
When the sirens sang of a stolen fate.
Not me, dear world—I’m plumage and grace—
Just a flamingo with front-row space.
They came in dawn’s deceptive glow,
In high-vis vests, moving slow.
“Construction,” they claimed, with a basket lift.
But I saw the glint of a criminal gift.
A lilac rhino, horn agleam,
Plotting theft like a fever dream.
Three cats in goggles, tails tucked tight,
Slipped through the Louvre like whispers of night.
One cracked glass with a diamond kiss,
One danced lasers in feline bliss.
The third—oh sly—with a velvet ID,
Winked at the guards and set the jewels free.
They took tiaras, brooches, and pride,
From Eugénie’s case with a thief’s soft stride.
Left the Regent Diamond, too bold to fence
Even crooks have a kind of sense.
Four minutes flat, then scooters roared,
Through Paris streets where secrets soared.
The rhino dropped a sapphire trail.
A clue, a curse, a mythic tale.
And I, a flamingo with scandalous flair,
Watched it unfold from the cool morning air.
Not blamed, not framed, just feathered and wise.
A witness to theft beneath gilded skies.
So mark my words, and heed this rhyme:
The Louvre was hit at 9:39.
By lilac horn and feline grace.
Not a flamingo with impeccable taste.
🦩
🦏 Lilac Rhino’s Defense
I stand accused with velvet shame,
A lilac brute in a gilded frame.
But hear me now, beneath this light.
I did not steal, I did not fight.
Yes, I wore the vest, the mask, the hat,
Yes, I lifted cats—I'll grant you that.
But lifting’s not larceny, nor is grace,
I merely gave them gallery space.
They told me they were art restorers,
Fixing jewels for foreign donors.
One danced lasers like a Louvre ballet,
One smashed glass in a curatorial way.
The third? A cat with a badge and tie,
Said, “Security’s thin—can you help us fly?”
So I raised the lift with noble snort,
Unaware of their feline sport.
I saw no tiara, no diamond gleam,
Just velvet paws and a practiced scheme.
They vanished fast, scooters in tow,
While I stood stunned in the morning glow.
Now Pink Flamingo sips and sings,
Casting shade with poetic wings.
But I am horned, not heartless, see.
A rhino framed by feline glee.
So judge me not by fur or horn,
Nor by the hour I rose that morn.
I lifted dreams, not royal loot.
I’m just a rhino in a high-vis suit.
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