shrinkable

routines on the celestial trampoline. Nerp zerp floopity derp! Skloopity-sklonk! Beneath the infinite yogurt canopy, a legion of sentient crêpes and robotic daffodils—erupted into applause. Overhead, a fleet of hover-sheep baa’d harmoniously to the beat of the stage. "Rydym ni’n hoffi rap!" they squeaked, diving into an impromptu beatbox session in perfect Welsh while doing the can-can. "Gallwch chi rapio mewn trois langues? Dim siawns, mon ami!" MC Daffodil laughed. "Ah, Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!" He pulled out a leek-powered synth harp. His rhymes ricocheted across