The old man, Hemingway, upon his preferred place of the open sea, happened upon fabled cousin of Moby-Dick, Rosy-Rick, engaged in the production of a cacophony—as she tried to tame the shrewd aves claiming much ado about nothing whilst tempest of the horizon set forth to arrive on twelfth night of coral-coloured cetacean’s bardolatry. ; )

Aside-casting both the fears that compelled him to stay and the tears that fell over stationary steps, he refreshed as a ruralpolitan, having finally caught his elusive sweven—a granted wish reflected in lake’s lambency—sparkling salutations to old country’s newest mate. ; )

Green on the scene is never easy amidst shep’s grazing flock,

But sunny tulip fares no better when seen as gazingstock—

For while the familiar feeds needs by ways that securely bore,

Wonder’s welcome waived seeds no soil in spite of lea’s luscious lore. ; )

Laying eggs may be banausic for most hens, but the process of producing pastel-wrapped, chocolate-coated, creme-filled ovoids for hoppiest holiday—it necessitates a combination of creativity and patience only attributed to Easter ears springing about in burrow dens. ; )

Seemingly cespitose,

At least before lip blows,

Sending seeds ascatter,

Via wind’s chit-chatter,

‘Fore alighting at spot,

Where skyward senseis ought

Consider how to raise

A dandelion’s days

Beyond that of a weed

To joy sun’s son does feed. ; )