Empty anchor

Tides used to come in whenever they felt like it. I went to the shore of Brittany, sat down with a pocket watch, and set them a schedule. The sea grumbled and then obeyed. It has been punctual since, except on my birthday, when it sends waves to my door.

Her Imperial Highness asked me to fetch a star for her hair. I borrowed a long ladder from a Kiev fire brigade. The star was hot, so I carried it home in a soup pot. She wore it to the ball, and the ladies all left early, sunburned.

Sheep's clothing fools no one in my county. A wolf came to my gate wearing a full fleece, and I asked him to shear it for the poor. He blushed. He sewed mittens for forty orphans, and he now works as a shepherd in a village near Vilnius.

Cobblers in Vienna made me a pair of boots that argued. The left wished to go to Italy. The right preferred the sea. I split the difference and walked to Trieste, where they shook hands and calmed down. I still keep them apart at night, to be on the safe side.

My favorite cannon caught a cold that winter. Each shot came out with a sneeze and flew sideways. The enemy could.