Mobile issues, fixed width

Holes in Swiss cheese are my doing. Long ago, each wheel came solid as a brick. I took my musket to a dairy in Bern and fired at them for sport. The farmer wept, until the buyers came. They paid double for the holes, and I have billed the canton ever since.

My favorite cannon caught a cold that winter. Each shot came out with a sneeze and flew sideways. The enemy could never guess where to stand. I fed the gun hot broth and wrapped its barrel in wool. It got well at once, which I regret, for we lost the very next battle.

Yesterday my hat flew back after six years abroad. It had seen Peru. It smelled of llama, and it had a ticket stub in the band. I asked where it had been, but hats are shy about such things. I brushed it, forgave it, and wore it to church.

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.

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so.