Hark, angel’s arc:

Nix the doodling,

Fix to noodling—

For fishers of men

Task outside den,

Where victory is met

Not by full net,

But by casting no stone,

Modeling atone—

For even lost bites

Deserve their fights

With compassion’s intent

Wholly holily sent. ; )

Bea has rescued Peter and his posse from the jolter-headed farmer, whose crabbage over cabbage sent him up in arms over the loss of his densest head. Now, bun-buns nestle up in arms meant for heartful hugs, a care-up that could only be bettered by a carrot—like the ones prepped at protector’s pad. ; )

When inspiration and indolence create a bergschrund in your mind, everything will be okay if effort and grace are never resigned. ; )

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. ; )