BUT IT POURS

As one handkerchief to a bandanna we're telling each other some little something. The big droplets have fallen. We knew they had no greater destiny than the sort of finality that might include some of the filaments within a panoply. The daily mambo has gone far enough. A very foreseeable spectacle has the great oozes of an altogether slow kind.
Till better or best theories on themes relative to many mustaches hit home a nostril and a membrane are in charge. The finest meshes have been resolute observers of repeated attacks on evidently wandering bits. Those bits are the floor. The floor has a quite carpeted look, for the entirety of it (the floor!) is covered with a carpet of some veritable thickness. That carpet retains no lawyers worth extensive mentioning but is sensitive. As noses extend themselves the carpet and nearby tables and chairs condole.
From the hours of dusk to the minutes of near midnight a group of gathered new incitements to endeavor will assert their full primacies. Till the rooms are full, let's be in the way on the way. One prime coat has the worn look of any age. The sage comments of the cook (a rather unquietly rumbling recluse) are as likely to resume as they ever were likely. A perhaps new travesty must be in and/or of a fabric whose fine meshes mesh middlingly. Several of the birds near us are tweeting. Their effusions are as collectable as the very stamps that offer all manner of reforming like some full regalia. As the vernacular supposes, the rhinoceros proposes.