The irresplendent pink unicorn landed in front of me, folded its wings, and skidded to a stop. “In what manner may I resist you?” he asked.
“Be away with you, you rhinosterous pseudoequine phantasmagorical fig pudding of my imagination,” I shouted.
“And to think,” the Unicorn replied sweetly, “I was ready to desist you from this slime-pit in which you swallow. Tsk, tsk.”
At the gutterance of the word “swallow” there alighted on the sparkling horn of the beast a small middish bird with forked tail. “You sang? I assist you, beak and caul.”
“Explain,” said the imaginary beast, “to this hard-polled ninny that our efforts can distract him from these pickles into which he has fallen.”
“Your good will, Sirrah, is all that is required,” said the Swallow. “We insist to be of surface.”
And at the squeaking of the word “surface,” aghast fixture opened beneath the creatures, and both were engorged in a trice.
I opened my left eye and peered through the blur of sheep captive within it. The green numerals on the bedside clock looked like this: #:3&