Where deer can hear only puffs of soughs amidst its green,

There dear will glare any stuffs of roughs against serene. ; )

Spinning discs, turning tunes, guiding vibes with hands plus half—

They would deftly-definitely pass an ergograph—

Feats an air play for feet to follow with steps synced tight

As club’s pounding waves steer mixer’s’ groove sets through all’s night. ; )

Okay, how do we gain gratis entry

Without off-tipping the sincere sentry?

We could try throwing our voice down the hall,

But such risky take might not work at all.

We might blend in with another posse,

Though that requires quite a lot of moxie.

Could posture as person of maintenance

Merit me unencumbered admittance?

What if we pinched knees, claimed emergency,

Then snuck from restroom surreptitiously?

Perhaps, there is substance to that told lore

Of nonchalant sneaks in through exit’s door.

Hmm. Might woman’s wiles woo man with brassard?…

…

…Oh, hey! That worked—and was so not that hard! ; )

Regarding reports of nearby’s fresh algae swell,

Roused rumblings request redirect—yell from her shell,

So Terri streams towards nosh by swiftest chandelle

And, now, finds herself placed to contentedly dwell. ; )

Poppie’s hands, parched from morning’s pugging, were ready for afternoon’s preferred—albeit, also pain-prone—task—picking, then pruning, pot’s partner—before placing both flourishing pink and nourishing rink where their pieced peace could begin healing life’s abrasions—via implicitly intertwined inspirations. ; )