Making Sense

The jury has been out on sense and the formation thereof for nigh on twenty and time. After a dry shower, the verdict spells "C-A-T."

I think I said it best when I said what I said best: a tree is only as gullible as a shoehorn. But that was never and today is the day before the end of yesterday! (I am the master of disaster.) Allow me to point my proof with logic. Say: “Bloomin’ onion.” Did you sing a song of six pence? With a doubt, you smell what I mean. And, with a boat, this recalls my inland voyage to fairyland:

‘Twas but a melodic chance, atop a fiery mountain of shame, square corners a freedom shoppe, up the lane from Grandma Barnacle’s glass cottage, wherein she rocked and rocked all ‘round Christmas dinner, complete with turkey-stuffed pillows, towering as tall as a tall, tall tower, half lacquer elephant, half star-child, and half a cup of sugar.

It was then I knew what I had to do, wakawaka, zoodaloo: 3-2-1-Extravaganza!.