A Rigmarole Casserole

The old rhyme factory was built by wondrous magistery, the ancient, arcane alchemy, well known from prehistory, that transmutes Tahiti to graffiti. The front door stood at the tributary of a distributary, presenting a permanent mystery over migratory territory overflown by singing birds without a repertory. Now, these singing birds, although they were on parole, they forgot to eat their casserole. Instead, they went to play urgently with Alis' chalice. Yes, they forgot the spicy casserole, but then the whole flock flew to Venice where they chirped the best barcarolle. Even gondoliers praised their service. So, the birds did not really care about spicy zest, nor about the hurling horse that prepared and cooked the casseroles, in a deliciously seasoned sauce, with roasted rhyming rigmaroles. Nevertheless, then the secretary of the oratory, and a teacher from the conservatory, came forward conciliatory and they said: "We don't offer any commentary." "Now wait a minute", said the master, "forget rivalry and chivalry and let it be known that it is perfectly legal to have excessive admiration for Shakespeare, beyond the circles of bardolatry, even when wearing a headgear, or traveling to Tangier."