Flocks of Moxen

Flocks of moxen walking down the trees, stepping gruntily in qwertious flow. Verily, their many-colored aptitudes speak for themselves, dundering upon such silent silks. On stilts we walk, haggard and token. Tales of folken wilderness vining upon every nestled stump. Entwined of rare metals, stringing along. A simple melody of a pond, and a quest in a frond.
Along such banks walked we, splishing the mud-haven. Cravenly entwistling the marshes of old. Swampy cattails arose from a zone. Walking we went, soaked to the bone. Fishing for zish, we stopped for a bit.
We spoke of subterranean humanoid puzzles, magically toasting the south-eastern border’s negative-seven-hundred-twelfth birthday. Burrowing in the dirt to get out of the heat, we caught the rare scent of moxen, an olfactory treat. Bounding over the marshy deserts by air and by spoon, a flock of moxen was spinning a cocoon. Snorting as they stamped, and grunting as they went, heartily nodding in gentle agreements as their spinnerets leapt, their horned feet and hoofed heads tread lightly on the wheat. Swishing tails of forgotten worlds, one luminous moxen neighed, mooed, and sang in a brilliant multiphonic display. It sang in tones rarely heard by the ears, in fact, I have heard it only once in ten thousand years.
Flocks of moxen walking up the trees, singing as they go, in all thirteen keys.