Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes consuming the silent midnight
woods.
He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart of a marigold and let his
molish
imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and pirate pictures of rusted d
oubloons
and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty muskets and goldfish gauntl
ets,
once worn by Henry Morgan. The lark awoke and doffed its plumed three cornered h
at
to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past the crested nest of the s
noring cuckoo,
and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for friend Mole. Mole was on a
marigold
comedown and sulkely scraped bluebeat rythms with his ground-digging paw.
"Yes," he whispered, "Me and Li are going aquesting for the Lilly
Pond of Fox Necks.
Li'll know all the mapping gen[??], so the mole, kneeling on the soft soil, said
a morning prayer
to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert trousers because his moli
sh mind knew that
praying was special.
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