Awe upon bush fiery

Sparked poet’s tushery,

His preferred remedy

To critic’s malady—

For within words plenty,

Choice is both right and free

When it sets soul glowy

Via pen’s language tree. ; )

Oh, we certainly thought our hatter was mad when he shared with us a furry furphy, suggesting to us there was a new place for afternoon tea that just so happened to create effervescent elixirs which could rejuvenate us to within age twenty by only minutes plus three. Yet, here we sit, adorable, gossipy buddies—though, not quite as cute as floppy-eared bunnies—hoppily—I mean happily—sipping our brews whilst wondering if dreams will beat the ruse via the choice of “What *is* there to lose?” ; )

Sheltered away

From man-un-kind,

Where land will

Foster growth

And views will

Spread right up

To open sees,

Milieu sans errorists

Lets a repentant one

Find forgiveness

Via the brush’s

Cheered chirps

And the brushes

Of lea’s breeze. ; )

Clearing the political storm wedged into the Windy City by bossism would require removing those with clouded judgment in favour of those, by points both gracious and fair, weathered. ; )

“Here, fishy, fishy, fishy!” cries the gull for its wishy.

*Swoopity-swoop*.

*Peck-peck-peck*.

“A pottle of sea? The heck?”

Dive redux—one and a two…

“That whale was camoed bright blue!”

Will the charmed time be the third?

“Tasty!” smackereled fed bird! ; )