(A little nonsense for Penny Watson. Let the reader understand.)
“Missus Penelope, will you please remove that hobo-esque costume? That is, please cease to deport yourself in hobo fashion. Thank you so much.” Master Pumplin was a harsh taskmaster, detested hobos and made it known. With his be-warted, spindly arm he held out an eggplant and BILE-colored dress and shook it at the curly-headed hobo.
“I don't look good in eggplant and BILE,” protested Missus Penelope, shaking her frizzy curls like so much synthetic gerbil bedding, purposely crafted to absorb errant streams of rodent BILE, “it would negatively contrast with my aura.”
Master Pumplin shook the dress all the more violently and his voice took on a stern tone. “Aura or no aura, you will not be dressed as a BILE-loving hobo in my sight.”
“Master Pumplin,” asked Missus Penelope, “what do you have against hobos? What has a hobo ever done to you?”
Master Pumplin grew all moist-edy eyed and his swollen tongue lolled from his mouth. A great stream of BILE trickled and then ran from the crease in his tongue, pooling on the floor. The BILE gave off the scent of woodsmoke and pudgey-pies.
“It was my wiener dog,” said Master Pumplin, “if the truth be known. You perhaps are not aware that hobos harbor a natural, BILE-driven hatred for wiener dogs, are you?”
“I am not,” said Missus Penelope, shaking her rambunctious curls.
“It was a hobo that was responsible for the downfall and ruin of my beloved wiener dog. He lured my precious wiener dog into his hobo-camp with the promise of bacon-wrapped anchovies. Anchovies smell worse than BILE, in my humble opinion”
“And the hobo killed your wiener dog?”
“Worse,” said Master Pumplin, “my dear wiener dog is now riding boxcars on the midnight train between Boise and Dubuque, and eats his kibble from an old tin can.”
“Awful,” said Missus Penelope.
“Yes,” said Master Pumplin, “and night and day my wiener dog sings the blues. A-how how how how.”