I whisper "don,t worry, I've no designs, on anything romantic or along those lines,"
you heave a sigh and begin to munch, of our picnic al fresco as the sun slips over
the yard arm we "oppen" the punch, which we slurp and sloop from a fluted cup,
i murmur "sup up its time were off". i shake the cloth as you tidy the stuff,
and dust down your kilt cos its covered in fluff.

You say quite bamboozled as you look under the cloth, "summats very fishy,
I've misappropriated a bap" from behind a tree we hear gnashing of teeth,
and a very wicked laugh.

I suspect foul play a nosynebs may be lurking, "tigger? did anyone follow you"
you look sheepish, no not on your nelly everyone importants working".

an ugly cloud of nimbo stratus appears from neewhere and sits right above us,
bringing the threat of drizzly rain, and maybe even hoar frost on its icy tail,
anything can be expected in a virtual story,