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

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

as they had before Ludo's rhymes cut Weeze
down to size. Like dayjobbing Van Gogh stars
seen from the ground they & copycat catsears

once towered, but now they looked a long way down.
Undainty oxeye daisies' discs of pollen,
Safety Yellow evil eyes which had also bored down

upon her when thru the shaggy garden she yomped.
These 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.

Like a Luftwaffe shadow in Grandad Emerald's
fav arvo viewing, Battle o' Britain as regaled
by Sir Larry, upon ver(de)micelli jungleland

over the fence, where unpaid boniface, neighbourly Ms.
Zirconia lived. But aerobatics all higgledypig
of Biggles bug did outstrip 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 seemed bricken Matterhorn.

O would she ever waltz back thru that postern door,
lilting a greeting as she had s'often before,
or must she scale jambs to knob like 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? Municipality of steaming turd,
where a business of flies from impromptu helipads
made vertical takeoffs & landings by the myriad.

Whilst muscidae in myriads more 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 splooshback slopped the Weezer's 

crocs (which is why fashion vloggers never extol
fuscia Primani slip-ons with designer holes
as tourwear for excremental dipteran citadels!)

Weeze crossed her arms into elbowed cocoon. 
'I'm happier as a haphephobe in this brown town!' 
Her squeam Dodo oblivibuzzily rejoined,

'Yez, stinks to high heaven - divine innit?
We flies worship odd orange dog, who's god-architect
behind such curlywurly prime real estates

as Poochipoopopolis.' Dodo planted his proboscis
in very poovement itself. 'Slike Hansel & Gretel's cottage,
nom nom!' But the 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.