“That’s the last straw! We’re gonna need
liquorice to slurp up the rest of that poet-tea
(which should obviously be drunk with a straw),”
says the punny Poet.

Lady Poet bites off more than she can chew.
Of her BLT. And chokes a little. Self Heimlich?

Poet cries over spilt milk because this is a sad, sad
occasion. And her cereal will be dry and crunchy :(

“That was a piece of cake,” says Poet, channelling
her inner Marie Antoinette at a birthday party.

Poet never ever puts all her eggs in one basket.
In fact, she prefers to use a cart at the grocery store.

Yes, Poet heard it straight from the horse’s mouth,
“Neigh.” Bet he wanted a sweet, sweet sugar cube.

Poet’s on the ball like a circus elephant.

Poet whispers/yells, “Let the cat out of the bag
for Bastet’s sake! We’re poetry-ing some poetry
not pulling a Schrödinger.”

Poet pulls the wool over her own eyes with her trusty
sheep-decorated sleep mask. Zzz.

Poet feels a bit under the weather as the clouds
continue to reside in various levels of the atmosphere
instead of below her feet. She just wants to feel
above the weather.

Poet was sorely disappointed that she couldn’t
take a selfie while inside a cloud’s silver lining
during the flight from Ottawa to Toronto.
There was no silver lining! None! Now
it’s a black cloud following her around sort of day.

Poet wrote an epic that extends down the whole nine
yards (roughly 8.2 meters in metric) of her hallway.
(That’s epic!)

A picture paints a thousand words, especially when
the poem is written in hieroglyphs.

Poet makes a long story short by hollowing out a secret
compartment inside the book.

Poet doesn’t judge books by their covers. She judges
them by their titles and ease of reach on library shelves.

Poet has the best of both worlds. Her doppelgänger,
inhabiting a parallel Earth, agrees wholeheartedly.

That want marketed as a need in our consumerist society
will cost an arm and a leg… “Maybe graverobbing?”
muses Poet.

Poet burns the midnight oil. As expected, it combusts
in her car’s engine equally well as noon oil does.

It takes two to tango, to rhumba, foxtrot, cha cha, or
swing. “It only takes one to be a bad dancer,” sighs Poet.

“Actions speak louder than words,” nod Poet mimes
this (scintillating) conversation with finger puppets.

Poet wouldn’t be caught dead here. She wouldn’t be
caught alive here either. Not since she took down all
those wild west outlaw posters that (erroneously)
showed her name and (lovely) face.

“Elvis has left the building,” chuckles the hard headed Poet
as she slips a CD into her purse on her way out the door.