Lost Porls Part III: …and then there were none

On the day we crowned our 1000th drawer of Porl and bestowed upon him great honour and gifts (a paper flower and a badge fixed to his head with spit), there was but one among our party who had not yet leapt aboard the thigh-slapping hayride that is Porl artistry. Naturally, he was encouraged to join in post-haste, and here is the gift he bestowed upon us:

Porl by Stan

Yay, it’s one of the rarer happy Porls, blowing his tongue like a streamer and defying gravity with his body glued sideways onto stiletto-clad trestle table legs. He’s tottering off somewhere right now, full of optimism (and possibly opium), eager to share his vision for the pas de deux with the Premier Maître de ballet en Chef , hoping to save the reputation of the Paris Opera Ballet and keep his orphaned ingénue sweetheart from the streets before finally succumbing to consumption in a drafty garret. Quelle tragédie…

And so the end of the line has been reached. Perhaps a little dark for a 9 1/2 year old’s efforts, but I assure you the artist was fully 24 when he drew this. Of the three facts offered about himself only the beard one is true, though “Nowhere” and “Suffolk” are synonymous to some.

Thus concludes our foray into Lost Porls, hitherto they are now all accounted for… except for the one in your mind’s eye that is yet to make it onto paper.  Let us have it, I prithee. Let it not end this way.

Artist: Stan


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