Love is for the birds: passerine on fleeting fling’s wings of joy.

For the love birds: nestling twixt bobbin’ robin and fliskmahoy. ; )

Mum retold pudu to walk—not run—upon the lawn—

For quick-rolling was only for those aged beyond fawn,

But grasses way too much tickled little deer’s belly,

Causing him to hedgehog self into floral felly,

Which was, later, forgivingly preen-pruned re his coat

By loving off-licks of lush lea a la dote on dote. ; )

Some say we have no colour,

That our cousins are cooler,

Fleurs downgrade like snowed couloir.

We say best reflects are white,

Bias in bloom deserves wite,

Tulip saints rise might like withe. ; )

While spring is plumming over cheekbones and kid is funning with knucklebones and pup is gumming on marrowbones, I shall continue sunning all lazy bones. ; )

Both beach box and speech lots hold capacity to change—realized when those who undress address [POB?] and those who overword underdress [gloss?]. ; )