King Dandelion, during this interregnum, fateful gusts will carry your offspring to their thrones, where golden florets will, then, rise to shine majesty on their kingdom Plantae.
Do you grant wishes true, snowy blew-flew, for a birthday girl whose cake was a dunderfunk under a matchstick? I would like at least one hope to turn whoo.
Seeds seeking homesteads float-loop to where they may remain grounded. Alas, one owner-drummer-marcher adverts to the nose over which it received blows and alights there for a quick doze–not to impose.
Sir Dandelion, now a stem of your former self, are we at a nonplus now that your nest is empty? Regardless, I will still whistle kiss to you because the foundation of life always deserves love. ; )