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Peter Piper was ever punctilious, like minty nature's painstaking paintings,
Or the palsied skies of one pretty evening, in the hour of the sun's fainting.

Peter lived upon a small, fertile farm, and was one of five, happy children;
The son of loving, hardworking parents, jointly working until dusk, silken.

They tended cows, pigs and chickens, and farmed potatoes and pumpkins,
As well as peas and pickled peppers, like velvety, dreaming presumptions.

Favored friends called some fuchsia Fridays, when glitter stars came early,
Frequently departing at dawn sky's garnet finesse, night memories blurry.

Flamingo-like fall leaves fluttered, waving goodbye to green, fading flowers;
As family called upon the fruity farm, making happy days from happy hours.

Peter lived in the house of persimmon sunsets, and of pinkish purple dawns,
Where prescient skies predicted the near future, as mists dyed green lawns.

A rambling road beside the rear door, meted sweeping views of rich rainbow,
Giving radiance a rapturous new meaning, in the wake of diamond sunglow.

Nights of nacre moon had nearly arrived, when neighbors brought nut bread,
And shared nostalgic memories and new gossip, and all that nightingale said.

Black-eyed Susan dressed in buttery yellow, in the summer of her blithe life;
After pink, peace lilies had spread good will, like smiles where roses are rife.

Green dolphin succulents took a dip in saffron gold, loving the scarlet season;
As morning glories worshipped sun, with its beauty blooms, being the reason!

One day proud Peter picked a peck, of the pickled peppers his family loved so.
Before moving on to the tomatoes, like gleaming moon, in daytime's shadow.

But, when Peter returned for the palatable, pickled peppers, they were gone;
Eaten by pretty birds and hungry rabbits, like cherry stars, vanishing at dawn!

That night poor Peter dreamt about the poser, of a puzzling, vanished peck.
'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' said a dream bird, with red flecks.

'A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked,' the green bird continued, slyly,
In the midnight of starlight on the rose, and whispering willows, moving idly.

'If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' continued fat, rabbits thus,
'Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?' all said in chorus.

Like the mystery of pretty, pink mists, or the array in green gardens, prolific.
Soon, pert scarecrows and proud fences, guarded profuse crops, to the limit!

When piggish animals pecked at pickled peppers, Peter had picked tomatoes.
Yet, moon skies of plum, purple passion reign withal, like smiles at rainbows!
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