“Whence have you travelled to here’s horizon, settled sun serendipitiously scenic?”

“For will of rising or ebbing fevers at bay, curiosity cryptogenic?”

Or, perhaps, pause to each queried clause so that presence may present essence Edenic. ; )

Homer watched over park’s blowhards wooing minds of their blind dates,

Wondering why only alone ones spun fun crumbs at ave mates,

Alighting from his search-perch when seeding ceded needed rates

From those not-so-observant eyeservants rationing what sates—

As though wheat-replete street would produce profound unfortunates

If bread staled dead for croutons, pudding—pigeon’s hallowed feast fates. ; )

With sewing time imminent, mewing turns ululant—for when thread darts bobbin, dread starts boppin’—leading pouncing tails away from each stitch, cleaving lounging tales re kits’ seamstress-witch. ; )

Whilst parents, swirling wines, finding finings’ refined finality, then, sip,

Their kiddos, twirling lines, minding miniskirt, mingling minuet, so dip. ; )

“Mum, each foot has turned into a lamb, oh!”

“Not actually, Claudia-pup, but now that mum is up, let us play crambo!”

“Um, is each foot a saged, aged canine?”

“No, they are not both a silver foxy.”

“Are they sapling sisters so spiced?”

“No, they are not squirrels of moxie.”

“Could they be giant, gruff glue globules?”

“Uh-uh, they are not edgy epoxy.”

“I know! They are Scottish cryptids!”

“Sharp guess, but they are not monsters of Ness Lochsy.”

“Mmm…Mum, I am just a dog—short on wit and writ and long to quit and sit.”

“Yea! You won, Claudia-girl! I knew you could do it, my feating-fluff-is-ruff-is-enough little doxie!” ; )