then blathered and burbled with rivulence,
so I swallowed her blog," said the fly to the toad.
"Now, The end!" said the toad to the fly, since.
And so it is rumoured
"That poem was in terrible taste," said the donkey, swallowing a snigger.
"Not as bad as the fly," said the toad, licking his eye.
To bray or not to bray
"Musth you do that?" said the donkey, giving the toad (who'd agreed to navigate) an inspiration as to direction.
they set off, later than they'd planned, but earlier than never.
So it is said
they've explored the Vastlands, been caught and condemned to be boiled in oil for Punning, escaped by disguising themselves as phasmids; followed the spoor of bletted medlar comfits till they reached—, but of Truth this blog can no more tell, than fly. As to whether it will rise again, that only happens in fantasies, cooking, and indigestion.
"I don't know why
I swallowed the blog,"
rumbled the stomach
of the toad.
"Take a tisane," said the donkey. "Don't say a word!"
Under liquorice skies
they bided time . . . and heard:
the trumpeting of bull chocoootaxonomists,