In the kingdom of half-baked pastries,
Where croissants moan about global warming,
A sonnet whispered through the keyhole,
Left a forgotten echo, like last week's gossip.
The sun rises like an overcooked egg,
Spitting yolk on the freshly mown grass,
And in this carnival of misfit metaphors,
Even the clouds have ballooned with irony.
"Do mirrors cry when they break?"
asked the reflection of a talking cat,
Whose wise remarks were drowned out
By the symphony of a thousand honking geese.