Going away, the way of the dodo, the dodo was flabbergasted at the sweater his mother made for Christmas.

In three parts, little could be gleaned from the sheen of the sun off the how you been lately and what will you do for me tomorrow, besides the three winds in the six willows, and cottonwood galore. The cottonwool sky hung heavy over the mistral sneeze box, given the glory in another hour after the first shark hit him. He wondered why the ball was getting bigger, and then it hit him. Right between the ayes have it, and he went down, but to my surprise in the grab bag of life he cut off a piece of my ear, like only a lover of Cracker Jack can truly appreciate. Intimate longings of twelve furlongs between the post and the home stretch led some to believe it was over in a hoofbeat.

The dodo sighed and sang his sad song along the river and into the snowy woods, lovely, dark, and deep. 

Ginger snapped, “Where’s the livid molasses anytime you look for it to make cookies?”

Heaving dozens of creameries up the seventy steps, an elephant only remembers the zebra when the antelope roam over Ginger’s new bearskin rug. A hug from George sets it all back to the menagerie it never had dreamt to be, friction in fiction and the flux of a duck in the attic–but who is she to judge? Ginger said the place was a wild bore, a snooze fest like the time he–and he remembered being a boy leaving stones down the glory of the hoary headed swain, bereft of the rural attachments and implements, but not too far along the road to perdition, paved with only cobbled intentions. Beholding the mighty waterfall, Quinn asked when the Eskimo would arrive, but he gave up all hope when Ginger told him the Eskimo would arrive at tea time with Godot.

The endgame notwithstanding, four will get you two when you give a lie for Ginger’s famous cookies.

Intimating a furious roundabout, George went to the basement and opened all the closets.

Skeletons enumerated the seven steps to the end of the loop while Moebius stripped in delight, but the dollars ran dry and so did the beer so so did George. A gallon of paint stripper helped immensely, even though the buns in the oven resembled flat bread pudding. He cried, she cried–so they said–but the pudding pie had no more thumb holes, so he had to put a finger in; however, plums being out of season, the innuendos would have to do–eighteen, nineteen, and twenty, but only with the Oxford comma for the sake of clarity when you run into a compound appositive versus a simple three-item list. “I love my parents, Ghandi, and Lady Gaga.” Now read it without the second comma.

George said he forgot where he put the Cambridge comma, but the skeletons rattled their lockless keys nonetheless.

The cathammer lied about what she did and didn’t do to the Katzenjammers’ clumsy kids.

Understanding that forgiveness depends entirely on the lie of the beholder, the sometimes grumpy cathammer flew into a rage of designed runs around the block with the neighbor bulldog in the style of Tom and Jerry, but only when Jerry was vacationing in Florida, wearing his cute little Hawaiian shirt–why he didn’t go to Hawaii we’ll never know.

Plucking up the heartstrings of an abysmal flying squirrel, the flying squadron of the whiffs of tuft flew over the cliffs of fortitude parading around the land of the benign cathammer. Angels fear to tread where Mildred was concerned about anything and everything with respect–and disrespect–to the flying beasts of the land of the cathammer, hammered into oblivious oblivion.

Lies, damn lies, and calisthenics denied the lies of the worst of the flavored cats. Or so it seemed to Mildred.

Discreet pilgrims of discrete information lollied up to the contemptuous heiress and said my aren’t you looking a bit subjunctive today.

Today of all days went the way of the one-way street with no name or mane to speak of–or to remain silent of, silence being a golden friend of the elephantine elephant in Thailand and three provinces of Canada. The zebras on the other hand–or hoof as it were or was or in between–brayed at the top of their braying hearts the joy of grazing on the plains of Savannah, Georgia–both on their minds and out of their minds and out of sight of land–there being too few lighthouses on Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s side of the Serengeti, where spaghetti grows on trees and meatballs living in meerkat dens. The watering hole filled with tourists, but their feet got stuck in the mud up to their kneecaps, and the lions looked at each other and said what are we to do with that sick lot of vectors of metabolic disorder, full of both magnitude and direction.

The zebras said “Over here!”, and the sun went down on Kilimanjaro, snow and all.

Classes and masses of long-forgotten linden bulbs fled en masse into the limpid pot of molasses at the bottom of fortune falling hill.

Ignited casks of sodium balls entered the bright eye of what have you done for me lately, but lately had arrived too early to enjoy the cream of the dream of that year’s sugar cane crop–once bitten twice higher than the Murray Hotel if the living is easy in the land of the valley of paradise–and not just in summertime, whatever Janice and George had to say about it. Jim and Russell and Thomas would beg to differ, but the threesome didn’t beg for anything where julips and tulips are involved, especially if the fishing had weakened her knees. Controversies of hilltop valleys aside, Anthony ate his pasty in peace while reading on the sofa under the full-blown stuffed bear.

Flies belie the safety of the river belayed through it, were it not for the football team practicing eating their Friday brownies.

The moose at the corner of Jefferson and Madison said the ruse was up, but his muse told the moose to light the fuse anyway.

The moose said the only way to clean the fuse was to check the Missouri before the Gallatin had a chance to sign the deed after Jefferson and Madison did their thing. The muse said the USGS was at odds with the odd locals, which is only fitting for the last two and forevermore. But then what do we do about that intervening half mile? The canyons are full of tourists this time of year, whether you are traveling to Rigby or not–not even if you own a car lot or are trying to sell one. One is the number of moose with a muse trying to light a fuse when the river may or may not have a name, depending on who or whom you ask. The broom of the system sweeps over the canyon of caverns like Lewis and Clark over the course of the two years after their fancy endeavor.

How charming a hole in the ground big enough to swallow a moose and its muse entirely.

Undelighted to be uninvited to the Frank and Bean show, the lollipops held a guild meeting where they unconstituted the underlying cause of the problem.

The problem was not so much that there were only two ways to Sunday but that the third way was overruled by the tertium quid and the platoon of squid with tridents and dentynes and other weapons of dental destruction. Construction soon began on the fourth way–bypassing the third altogether and all apart–but the triumvirate had trouble finding a fourth to make the midnight tee time–quadrumvirates being a quorum for golfing in the forum, lined with shops all the way to the casino where a statue of a stunt man on a crashed motorcycle ogled the brides and grooms who grew aghast at the last sighting of the old outcast ballplayer.

Frank and Bean shouted out the victory of a Rose, but it was nothing but a Rose by any other name.

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.

Fleas of glee and harvest entered the cornfield of blimps and ate to their hearts’ delight.

Grazing on the fleas in need, the boisterous buffalo gave milk for their favorite cheese and said so that’s what the fuss is all about. About a seven-year first past the post of moderating romance, the lacy frog asked the buffalo where all the fleas went. The buffalo said to the market, but you should try the cheese if you haven’t already. The frog said I’m lactose intolerant, so I’ll stick around for the fleas to return. The buffalo said there’s a flea who stayed home. The frog said I’d prefer one with roast beef. The buffalo said that hits a little too close to home. The frog said then I’ll have none.

The fleas of glee and harvest returned from the market through the cornfield of blimps, and they gleefully said oui, oui, oui, oui all the way to the frog’s home.