Once i walked along a road of twine with pollen and pollen sticks flying around me, amazed by the world they had just been dispensed into. I clambered through some tall twidly grass and came to a humungous field of poppies swaying in the breeze, and there, was a wise old man dreaming away under a tree with his pipe half-falling from his lips. Maybe he was dreaming of exactly what was happening. He woke up after chilling hard and mumbled something about lemon cottages floating on intricately patterned liquid type stuff.
Bishtit, Rowflad and Itsycob skipped through the posing flowers hysterically excited about some 500 colourful middle-earthly people prancing about in wierd formations to something they apparently call psytrancing or mash it, or whatever. So over the poppies i flew to sea what mischief and exhilerating mayhem was ahead.
Colnoggin and cyrillis were siting on a horn of plenty which was making inward noises and singing funnigans about a red rose protector who got stuck in lu