Polly heard a gentlest whoosh as her pursed lips breathed life to blows via push.

Then, she heard a subtlest schloop as each bubble departed its soapy loop.

And, of course, she heard all joyfulest whees from kids downwind the brushing breeze.

But, sans an uber-mic, she knew not that when they pop, they verily skrike. ; )

“Nevermore shall I scavenge a French soiree

Where they serve too much galantine and pâté—

For texture contrasts yield treats tastily new;

Hence, this instead bread just needs some Brie fondue.” ; )

The Neigh Weigh: In a ‘fair’ horse race, bettors who luck the most on the impost merit a roll in the dough whilst, afterwards, ride-eyed equines feast on the last least of hay.

The Nay Way: In a human-race affair, lessors, as the house, buck any toast by a hopeful host—deemed a lesser dreaming of life aglow—without a way to pay. ; )

For last eve’s fine dine, she was down for digesting fills of daffodils, but, now, lackadaisical lemur is finding that cathemeral cravings are up for lea’s daisies regarding morning’s munch. ; )

Dipper’s favourite fish was, indeed, quite delish,

But bitter bit in caudal fin set tum aspin,

So, sans honey, she took coast’s closest scammony

To quell her angst and ache before return to lake,

Where nauseous nosh was soon forgot in bubble wash—

A cathartic mixer preffed to med elixir. ; )