Cwv, samples, poor

Spiders in my attic wove me a fine coat when my tailor died. It took them one summer. The sleeves were light, the collar was warm, and the pockets trapped flies for my lunch. I wore it to court, and three duchesses at once asked for the pattern.

Desert sand crept into my pocket watch near Timbuktu. The thing began to tell time in dunes. Noon arrived as a small hill. I crossed the Sahara by its reading and reached the coast a week before I left, which annoyed my banker and pleased my wife.

Soup nearly sank us off Crete. Our cook had made too much of it, and it rose up past the hatches. We bailed with spoons. At last we all sat down, tied on bibs, and ate the ship dry. No crew was ever so full or so brave.

Wolves in Poland once howled off key beneath my window. This pained my ears. I went out with a tuning fork and drilled them until dawn. By spring they sang in four parts. A bishop hired the pack for Easter, and the eldest wolf now earns more than any tenor in Warsaw.

Rain followed me around Portugal for a month, like a loyal and rather damp dog. I tried running. I tried hiding in a church. At last I scratched it.