Madame Onion Face charged down the Sunny-D-colored streets. She was a vegetable on a mission.
A race car neared, controlled by the brown tendrils latching onto it like an octopus. They smacked gainst each other; but Onion Face was much too strong, & the other car was knocked off the highway, smacking the gray fur patch below.
She felt the road dive downward & her heart sang when she reached the bottom—only to notice ’twas an inch ‘way from the same highway’s entrance, just like the last dozen times she traversed that orange track, which she would continue to do, in the hopes o’ eventually ‘scaping this cyclic nightmare.