Fred and Florie Phillips were flustered.
In the forty fabulous years since they had wed
they had never seen anything
as flommoxing
or as far-flung
as the fantastical figment
they found that fateful Friday.

The problem, of course,
was the flan.

Mountains upon mountains
of foul, flemmy, floppy flan
flowed across their formerly fabulous front yard
like some sort of flabby floating fungus -

and it wasn't exactly fine olfactory fare, either;

the fragrance
was similar to that
of the florid foamy fecal flume
from a flock of frantically flatulent flamingos
who had feasted feverishly
on foul fetid fish.

Florie flipped.
Fred was in a flaming fury.
"Phone the firemen," he fulminated;
he was all in a froth.

The firemen flew to the farmhouse
but were frustrated;
this flan flood had them aflutter!

To their credit,
the firemen were full of fun flan facts.
For instance,
flan failed to be flammable.
For certain,
there was no such thing as flammable flan.

Furthermore,
flan floated.
Flooding the front yard with firefighting foam
could have caused the formation
of a veritable floatilla of flan.
So the firefighting foam was forbidden.

Finally,
feeling outfoxed by this fountainous, flabby foe
the firemen fled.

Fred was frankly flabberghasted -
those fire freaks would feel the fustian flames
of his frantic fury
in the very near future!

Florie was flustered;
this unforeseen fount of fluffy flummery made her fearful.

She fumbled to find a final solution to this flossy freshet.

The answer fell from the firmament:

It was the first Friday of February
and fluffy flakes fluttered from the sky
freezing the formidable flood of flan.

The Phillips's feeling of freedom was fabulous,
but fleeting -

for they had forgotten about the flamingos...

06/26/2006

Author's Note: for my father, who favors the flavor of flan.

Posted on 04/11/2007
Copyright © 2025 Maria Francesca