if the Potato were Shakespeare

Now is the winter of our discontent

made glorious summer by this Peony’s sleepover;

and all the Bee that lour’d upon our house

in the deep bosom of the night away from home.

Now are our brows bound with Mommy kisses;

our pudgy arms wrapped around Daddy’s neck;

our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

(P.S.–the Bee had a great time.)

(P.P.S.–Sorry, Will!)