We boarded a seashell to ride across the waves.
The mythology of our passage involved dirt, sharks, a zeppelin, and wires.
We ate the same meal seventeen days in a row (pancakes).
We learned to say yes, please in four different languages.

Our fur-lined hats were useless in the fine September air.
The mystery of our parentage was a serape on our backs.
Out on the prairie, the locals usually took us at face value.
We learned about sturgeon, washing machines, ennui, and fake tan.

We joined a fruit-of-the-month club to widen our horizons.
The mastery of our foliage required an endless sea of mowing.
We attended bake sales with a suspicious degree of fervor.
We hindered our children with violins, bad haircuts, and diplomas.

Our names were changed to make them easier to remember.
The monastery of our heritage was repurposed into handy snacks.
We sold refrigerators to people who already had refrigerators.
We lived in suburban glory in our double-decker townhouses.

Our children were changed to make them meaner and fatter.
The memory of our verbiage was as a schnitzel in the wind.
We kept our money close, and our feelings closer.
In the event of an emergency, we kept a baseball bat prepared.