Somewhere, I don't know

We all went somewhere, I don't know, to buy geese for St. Linksausage Day. Premium stratford cantaloupes were also to be had, although having had them, we chose to decline. On the decline, walking downhill, as it were, we came to a vintner's establishment next to the canal. The owner called it a qanat. Breva was disoriented, and so we had to keep pulling away from the qanat and on towards the blinky blue lights. Saucer people, in particular, like to flash those lights when geese are en route.

The people of France genuflected as one, when the ballyhoo reached pupation. Drinks were had, pipes were smoked and vampires sucked oranges.

Don't ever get caught having relations with a sheep. Budgerigars aside, the gloves came off, and humble dregs were all that was left.

Forks, knives and spoons all in place, Mr Kalamazoo could rest for a moment. He pulled his remaining cheroot butt from his ruler pocket and lit is lustily with a strike match. In the background, bellowing and wailing punctuated the merriment of the rabble rabble rabble crowd, all gathered in front of South Park City Hall.