The hippo dealt the cards out with an air of mystery. Each card skidded face up across the table as if carried by a well placed gust of wind. When the cards were out, a deep, majestic, rumbling voice arose from the end of the table. The hippo was announcing the rules, but the players were too enticed by his dreamy voice to digest the information. The players floated along unaware of what was occurring in the game. They hardly noticed the cards they picked up or the ones they put down. The hippo had them spellbound. Breaking her concentration from the hippo, one of the players looked down at her cards suddenly aware of the money up for grabs. That was all her savings. Her tall ears began to sweat as she glanced up at the hippo once more. With a rumbling laugh the hippo put down his cards. Done. The rabbit, in distress, looked sullenly down at her cards after placing them in front of the hippo.
Dear The Tops of Broccoli, The way your luscious green tips are a sponge for bold flavor, Leaves my wholehearted love, for you, to not waiver. Your top is so moist, leaving me under a spell, For how you stand as so good, you have left to dwell. Yet what’s under you is chalky, unpleasant, and bad. How could something so good grow from something so sad? Your bottoms have no flavor, and are very bland, The opposite of you, bursting with flavor and quite grand. You are so good, you should exile the bottoms, Then I’d have the most perfect bite, without any problems. Oh tops of broccoli, my one true love, Those troublesome bottoms you must get rid of.