Digging through pineapple sauce, I misplaced my mustache key. My face froze in facial fear and fair hair.

Do not judge a cover by its book! I yelled inwardly. So many letters and numbers filled the void but the

shape of a worm took the shape of a worm in my eyes. I fumbled, embarrassed.

A horn called and was met with silence. They later married. In the interim, I had a worm. I had no

mustache key. But, I asked no one, did I have a substitute? The answer never came. At least not yet.

The worm squirmed, so as to rhyme.

As I explored the nooks and crannies of the worm’s exterior, I had a thought. Why not? Thoughts are fun

things to have. Try it sometime!

Thus, the worm slithered round my mustache, feeling for the keyhole. And do you know what?

Mustaches don’t have keys. This is the moral of the story.

Worms are kind of gross.

The End

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