“Well, flick my Bic! It’s a dik-dik!” flamed the being of buffoonery from the local bloomery.

“What interesting iron*y—,” mused the mini-lope, “that gas and hot air left their clay bed for this dimwit’s head.”

“Perhaps, someday,” hoped gazing Elle, “dumb-dumbs will keep silent regarding that which is overtly clear and I can be left to focus my ire not on a boor away from his ore, but on the all too many, I fear, who still think I’m a deer.” ; )

Eximious elm, undressed into season’s rest, points at each wish upon which it hopes is granted grace to bear—in time, again—another leaf’s belief—that light is to life and moments of dark only ephemerally exist until ready sets spark [Hark, star*k bark!]. ; )

Regarding curled kitten’s seemingly sanguine swevens in bed of catnip field of dreams, know that, actually, cat’s cogitations are nipping nice mice into a sanguinolent dish of—verifiably violent—vice rice topped with each of sweet and sour, mostly ghostly, scream creams. ; )

Dear Rambos in camos,

We tire of each aim—yours, lame and untame—that leads to a maim

As you lowly cower in mirage of foliage shower.

Hence, our intention obreptitious, while not *too* malicious,

Turns the tide of sneak onto synthetic strong from never weak.

So, if you hear a pop from field, it may be your turn to yield—

For though we live sans hunting stock, antlers *can* shish prick kebab.

Merely sincerely,

Near deer to fear. ; )

Could that stalwart, angelic Romeo

Be Saint Mark unadorned of wreathed halo,

Preceded by quadriga in formed row,

Immortalized around cinquecento?

Whether so or no, piece is still a glow. ; )