Faded Houses Green

The nightshade turned into a lightshade when the tomato and potato put a hat on and called it macroni.

Zambonis flew along the gulf of Toledo only so high above the valley floor, clearing the whims from the willows till pillows of marshmallows blew gusts of powdered sugar and fairy dust into the great wide open. Dozens of musketeers auditioned for the role of D’artagnan, but all for one left behind the other four once and for all, and Dumas fumbled the thread like Shawshank predicted he would because he was too busy dying and too lazy lying for his liver to catch up to the rest of the Zambonis in Livermore–not that Liverpool or Lilliput had anything else to promote with respect to the inner trappings of the cosmological constant, being variable as far as the eye can see.

I can see the lightshade unbecoming nightshade, and so can you.