Oh me, oh my, I think myself I did con

In stashing by direction of that gnomon,

Which had so pointed to a securest tree

At what was, I believed, a quarter past three.

But, now, it is cast ten minutes until five

And I did not place them under that beehive.

Could it have been pointing through fifteen past four?

Eek! Never put acorns by fountain’s wet floor!

Those elms look familiar ‘round the clock of six,

Though I would have remmied that mum and her chicks.

Oh me, oh my, there is never a right time

When storing by the passing of dialed rhyme. ; )

Her titillating tattoo still new, bright

Sure looked like a morsel of mouse that night.

Perhaps, assumption was not quite so right,

But not enough to preclude ankle’s bite.

Now, lawn-banished due to act seen as spite,

Mopes most morose a la kitten attrite,

Whose oh, delicious, not malicious flight

Meant to tum delight rather than mum fright. ; )

That which may be considered a peeling

Is not, in fact, lost of state appealing—

For though initial sight incites heartbreak,

Breaking of beams will permit no art brake

Because as the passing of time reins blows,

New waves’ nozzleman turns up the rainbows,

Illuminating each where of a wear

So that heeding healers are now aware. ; )

As daylight’s drop

Prompts sleep to stop,

Feet floor for clop

To brekkie’s chop,

But due to flop,

Eat’s bites do stop,

So to tuck-shop

For muffin top,

Then back by hop

For couch’s plop,

Where such a swap

Earns nap’s new op—

Still as brights pop

In wakey bop. ; )

Lilidh, loof lifting longing’s laid lean, lets lips lovingly limn leading lady’s lost lore, leaving lured listeners luckily, livingly luminesced. ; )