Eloise Emerald's Adventures In The Grass, Book 5

Up, up & awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! Dodo plus passenger
scaled cerulean midsummair some 2 metres ,
surplus limbs tucked in like a swaddled Durga

(when Hindu goddette handled innumerable rattles,
teethers & activity plushes, not an arsenal).
Below them, dandelions appeared as small

as they had 'fore Ludo's rhymes cut Weeze
down to size. L/ dayjobbing Van Gogh stars
from the ground, they & their copycat catsears

once overarched, but now they looked a long way down.
Undainty oxeye daisies' discs of pollen,
whose evil eyeing safety yellow had alos bored down

upon her when thru shaggy garden she yomped,
Eloise's thumbnail could now eclipse
from mobile eyrie, courtesy of Dodo's wingflaps.

Along Tom Thumb thermals, the fly artfully weaved,
less kamikazilly than 1 might have believed
to hear his typical thano-flannel jive.

L/ a Luftwaffe shadow in Grandad Emerald's
fav arvo viewing, Battle o' Britain as told
by Sir Larry, upon the verdmicelli Sherwood

of bird's eyed lawn fell shadodo of her pilot
(unless hovering cruciform umbrous cutout
was swift or martin insectivoring at height,

such as Dodo & his foxhaired cargo - ulp!).
Eloise's backbone was nails as pulp
fiction,  yet vertigo spiked, glancing sideswipe

was sideways glance over next door's fence.
Blood triangle (Maslow's hierarchy of Scarface,
say) was the carmine cliffface gable. Bonifaced

hospitality the wont of Weeze's neighbour, Ms.
Zirconia, but the higgledypiggledy aerobatics
of Biggles bug outstripped sane reminiscences

of lemonade & scones at Ms.Z's. However,
Eloise did steal a shufti over her shoulder
at her own backporch receding further & further.

No flytinerary, just a flyline for the bottom
of the garden, tho' at her current stature, her home's
conservatoryless rear wall was bricken Matterhorn.

O would she ever waltz back thru that postern door,
lilting a greeting as she had s'often before,
or mut she scale its jambs l/ a ginger spider?

Dodo's pensive passenger was brusquely wrenched
from sorrowful cogitation by an unholy stench!
& from Dodo's descent she discerned they'd reached

what terminus? A municipality of steaming turd,
where a business of flies from impromptu helipads
made vertical takeoffs & landings by the myriad,

whilst myriads more muscidae circled the pooey
bluebottopia, aping hovercars in sci-fi movies,
or agitated constellations. 'Urgh, this burb is grody,'

Eloise squealed as Dodo finessed a greaser,
his graceful touchdown no gluteal bruiser,
tho' skosh of splashback slopped the Weezer's 

crocs. Never has fashion vlogger extolled
Primani fuscia slip-ons w/ designer holes
on tours of excremental Dipteran citadels!

Weeze crossed her arms into elbowed cocoon .
'I'm happier haphephobic in this brown town!' 
Her squeam oblivibuzzily he rejoined,

'Yez, it's a total citadel here, isn't it?
Flies worship odd orange dog, who's god-architect
behind chocolate heaven residential estates

l/ Poochipoopopolis.' Dodo next planted his proboscis
in the poovement itself,  'Slike 1 big Hansel & Gretel cottage,
nom nom!' But knowledge a fly noshes

the dung he's a denizen of did not divert
her beezer from being olfactorily alert:
there was familiar fetor to this dump's scent.