Morning ArrivedMorning arrived (late as usual) only to find that afternoon tea had eaten all the biscuits, noon had finished the coffee, and evening had eaten that croissant hidden behind the basket on the counter. Morning sighed: and it’s not even a Monday…
Morning arrived like a camel in a steam room—he’s pretty happy, but you’re surrounded by the delightful aroma of steamed camel. Once smelled, never forgotten. #nothinglikesteamedclams
Evening slipped in the door wearing a little black dress, high heels, and carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand. The other hand held a revolver, but afternoon didn't notice until it was wayyyyy too late.
Morning arrived like a kiwi in a tiny tyrannosaurus suit—major predatory ambition by floofy adorability.
Morning arrived like a shortcut through fantasyland—the giant goldfish is cool and the diplodocus won’t bite, but you’re never getting home.
Morning arrived like a cold lamb chop cut into the shape of a tiny T-Rex and delivered via carrier pigeon—this meal brought to you by squab and gravity and the number 4.
Morning arrived like an infinitely recursive series of meetings between the ad hoc subcommittee on committees and the post hoc ergo propter hoc committee on subcommittees. The chair would like to recognize the representative from two mirrors facing each other.
Morning arrived like a post-apocalyptic revival of the latest find of culturally relevant archaeology: Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dream Cats. We’re still trying to work out how to wear a Cat of Many Colors and why Potipher Jones wife wore spats and nothing else…
Morning arrived like yesterday’s shrimp—wait did you say “peel” and eat? That’d explain sooooo much. Scouring is good for the colon, right? Feel free to lie.
Mmmmm, crunchy…
Morning arrived like a whole culture backsliding gently into the sea—I think it was just a cat that missed their jump and then dragged the covers off but the metaphor was inescapable. Which, to be fair, metaphors usually are with their lightning speed and shining claws.