There are squirrels the size of similes. Rats pose as metaphors.
A gerbil is being a gerund. Slant rhymes recline in jars.
On the never edge of everywhere mute phonemes ply the trade
of participles who have got a royal flush in spades.
The sun comes up the way it must in legendary tales.
Storms blow away the wind itself and adverbs tally pails
of overindulgent modifiers Hemingway would hate.
The full stops start a race across where angles hesitate.
Ellipsisically in threes they trot. Alone they cannot fend
off question marks like this that marks what surely is the end?