Lavender, Lavender, she grabbed a spoon.
In her story arc, she'll be dying soon.
In her seat, she emanated a tune
by gesticulating a held-up swoon.
The trio, poked by the croon,
darted peeks at the perceived loon,
watching granules pile up like a dune -
as if to peak at a noon -
the sands of her wretched state to reach full moon.
