Shoot the canon at you, the canon of ancient albatrosses where necks were fit for naught but three nooses and a turtleneck, which of them being most deadly, we daren’t say.
Children flew along the very heart of beating treetops, verdant in their blue bowler hats and yellow ochre pajamas. The trees, not the children. The nannies followed closely behind (the children not the trees), but not so close as to see beyond the treetops of the edge of the third-most avoided haberdashery in the valley of the shadow of five o’clock, as told by an idiot sundial, full of suds, and furry! Furry is as furry does along the watchtower, but that advice came too late for the albatross trying to drink from the shrunken boards along the Mohawk.
Divine comedies play nightly at seven and ten o’clock unless the sun is down–given the time of year–and the sundial needs winding. Laughing at the gods is the fair spectacle of battalions of canon fodder–Joshua having melted down all the cannons, but the PR department said canons are far more effective anyway.
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