Oh, you silly wallaroo!

For dessert, you want bamboo???

Well, where to start?

Without breaking your heart.

That is a tree—a scratchy lick.

With non-leafy parts that will make you sick.

Also, lost of your desert, how did you find this snow?

What?! Your tail is frozen to the ground?! Oh, no!

Hmmm. Is there a snack in my sack?

Well, this matrass’s residue will make you gack.

But, my beaker’s juice might tickle your tongue.

And, these warmers may just provide freedom un-unsung.

Oh, wallaby, it is not wallabye; please, do not wallacry.

In fact, hop to a place with this welcoming guy for some well-deserved sugar-cane pie! ; )

Postulation amid patches of posies presents postured palms—one of passive pronation and the other of pensive supination, staging a scene of sensed serenity within speckled sea of spring’s springs. ; )

As nomothetic nuances of neon buzz, her idiographic inquiries into identity dive. ; )

When dark feels incarnate, light, albeit uncarnate, feels like welcoming arms. ; )

Somewhat late for twelfthtide’s original rush, I am finally here—your kingly, regally-robed Christmas thrush. Soooo, looks like I am left to adoring local church’s nativity-scene plush, which, I suppose, means no need to nobly gush at level hush. ; )