Old O.M. trotted livered 'long the lakefront, looking: no, no, not there.
'Twas somewhere to be found, to be certain, but what and where?
'Twas not for old Orange Marmalade to know, least not presently.
Toast was a sailor.
He ran away form home before he was old enough to take out a proper line of credit.
So now he was a sailor.
Not that that paid any better or anything.
He sang songs about hard times.
I been doing some hard traveling, he sang, I thought you know'd...
But then realized he'd been doing no such thing.
He was landlocked.
This is what old O.M. had been looking for all along: landlocked lovers, moored migrators.
She just didn't know it yet.
But she will.
Oh yes, she surely will.
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