Possibly, tired of game-spotting, dotting and dashing, Painter-Creator had a longing for lines, elegantly unbroken. Pure without rendezvous, their unrequited love eternally unspoken. ``A change from Cheetah with his collection of marks All nature needs is a set of stripes - symbolic of healing forever, And I`ll lay them all on you, Monsieur Zebra!" Roguishly, almost, that creature roams the wild, although wearing rigor in the design of his hide. Always imprisoned in black and white. Imperial parallel lines. And, tamely, a convict looks out from the severest of bars Across his cell- window. ``Wish one were skew, I`d escape to the stars!" L and double ll, the word itself contains the concept - line-like letters, side by side. Though is it para-lell or -llel? Goodness, I forget! La-di-da, linguistic laws! You are laboriously legalistic. Let`s have gentle guidelines, almost-parallels, which have the grace to bend. Every now and then, two fools, bent on comedy, find each other`s antics equally funny. ``Ha-ha, Clown, you`re ludicrous!" ``Nay, Elf, merely eccentric!" Jesters, unaware that the very laughter lines on their faces are matched. Lovers, ha! - on the other hand, keep a cool fixed distance apart, initially. Then - legit-and-intimate, approach a limit, and come to lie closeclose together. Who can tell whether they form one life, or two, parallel? ``Long ago, in Liverpool ... " my mother-in-law tells stories of her boy, now my beloved. ``Look - these pointed iron railings are rare today." Neat, spearlike, in a row. Vectors! ``Let`s turn these parallels into bullets! Para-shoot in self-defence!" came the call In the Wars, I and II. Weapons, not hedges, were needed in a hurry. Indeed, the metal-melting worked. Line upon line, homely fencing was ripped out In sacrifice. Woeful women turned into widows, and a few men, sta-sta-mmering victors! Nowadays, well-organized fiery darts attack the family in more subtle ways. Newspapers no longer carry the cruelest lines of all. Nailed with His back to us, it`s easy to forget, at Easter, that thirty-ah! nine-ah! parallel strokes were part of the torture. Even a child playing choo-choo is fascinated by tracks which nevernever meet - ``Except at infinity" the sage adds, cryptically. So, terrible lashes free us from selfish cells, forever. Someone, sing of this escape from slavery. Guitar`s six lines, unplucked, lie Silently parallel. Musicians! Wake up! Make those strings meet, as we dance 'til Eternity!