We Rose with the Dough

They rose with the dough in the morning,

rays of happy light and yeast a-scorning.

Miniature elephants pranced in a line like ants in a weaving row;

wood gnomes yawned as they tickled a friendly giant’s toe.

Cannons exploded with flying colors,

and gentle orphans lined up for possible mothers.

The guillotine came slicing down on all their hopes,

the trapezes artists painted wildly on the ends of trusty, frayed ropes.

Fairy’s fainted in the sunny silence,

and there were no heroes to set the saving ambiance.

The ironic iron workers felt lost and soft,

and the dusty stories, covered in webs were stuck fast in a loft.