Our dearest fisher friend, fallen from land under cumulus,

Shall, in this bed, be honoured under a seafloor tumulus—

For he unlittered synthetic dangers with focused purpose

So that all could be free—from stars of sea to pods of porpoise. ; )

Pengies, quite fine in tuxie coats, still longed for greater glow,

So they scoured the ocean’s pulpy dregs awashed down below.

After waddling fars and ways, toes told heads ‘twas time for snooze

And, at that, pengies fell on their wings atop beach’s loose.

Upon wake, pressed into arms, couch-face patterns had appeared.

“Oh, delight!” they cried—as fashioned feathers a la moreen so endeared. ; )

Amid puffy pews, Penny loafs, having prayed for and received recumbence for her trespasses—‘loitering lies’ in her words—and, now, as she opts for amends via ‘sofa-sticated standing’, a postlude groans from the heavens, heralding her right of way to bide the day. ; )

“Well, I will be, Wallaby!”

“Caves hold pockets of cold.”

“Ditches dug by a fossor’s tug field snitches smug.”

“Glasses temper tantrums of lasses.”

“Bags break and spill due to overfill.”

“Igloos suppress blue hues.”

“Blanket forts muffle boorish retorts.”

“And, then, there is you and your pouch—

A comfort to ouch,

A security vouch,

A napping couch,

A placation to grouch,

As posh as a nouch,

A love like a smouch,“

“What a warmthful wonder to rendezvous with you, my brilliant Wallaroo!” ; )

Most believe heard pheals are all barks and no bites of the wintry winds, but, alas, in truth, the cries emit from freezing flora, stripped to their starkest selves, left to survive via their strengths that do not kill. ; )