Moths destroyed the rust that had decayed on the deck of the floundering ship of fools for nearly three decades of overuse and undercarriage.

To arms with less assertive monikers, we bedeviled the weevils of Wasserstrom while the lamp of Damocles could bear it no more. Under the weight of studious expectations, Jennifer goaded the slumbering flapjacks to minstrel life and sang along with her clarinet buzzing a finer tune than you ever thought to ask for. The moths were nothing compared to the rust the Goths brought along in their cat-drawn carriages and silken pajamas. They had a leg up when pajama day was announced on the battlefield, but they were unprepared for the brutal marshmallows the moths surrendered into their midst.

So Jennifer asked if she could be entrusted with the next meal of corn and flapjacks, saying she could muster all the fancy syrup the Goth moths would need to carry the day all the way back home to Norman’s mother.