If a chichevache

Upped on chick, apt cache,

They would sic evil’s slay

Via checks—each ward-way. ; )

“Look,” explained Scarlet, “You clearly cannot primp yourself properly.”

“Your style is too square—and not in a hip way.”

“Well,” confessed Claire, “I will never be as prismatic and personable as you.”

“But, maybe you could share some fashion advice? That would be nice.”

“Surely do!” piped Scarlet, “Remember, even is for strange Steven and askew is for you; avoid being a broad zany, but create chic a la unique—like a board’s waney.”

“Let us start with a tilt and, then—you add the lilt.”

“Yes, let us start with a tilt,” parroted Claire, “and I will kilt?”

“Oh, Scarlet, no! I am all for against-the-grain train of my not-so-vain brain, but *plaid*?!?!?! That is too mad!”

“Listen,” comforted Scarlet, “There is no need to fret. Remember what I said about any linear up-get?”

“For now, I will shoulder the flair of Claire myself—literally right here—until you are ready. I will not run away and you will not runway—because birds of a feather make awe by macaw—together.” ; )

Juliet capped her roaring day as a flapper,

Jazzed for her ever with a gent oh-so dapper.

Dance, though, with bride-groom turned into quite a flopper

As rhythm—why sistrum?—flubbed each Lindy-hopper. ; )

Make way for ducklings.

For plushie ones, alter supellectile setting upon carpet sea before top-billing tea.

For waiting-not waddlers, guard those crossing hot-rod roads twixt each of placid pond and hushed, lushed lea.

Of course, aside for plucky duckies whose zeal of teal takes lead from mum—always, especially. ; )

Meow, if you want be,

Then, so feline, scot-free,

Stop grinding such teefs, gears

Of bird-beasts and dog-bears—

‘Cause like collared thirlage

To cat-vassal’s purr-rage,

The only way cur-tail

What scratches every ail

Is pounce-to-paw each mill

Fur mew life of free will. ; )