Relative canonical, near miss

Echoes in the Alps are lazy. I shouted my name at a cliff in Switzerland, and the answer did not arrive until the next spring. It came back a bit hoarse, with a slight French accent. Still, I was glad to hear from myself after so long a time.

Teeth are no trouble to me. A molar came loose at a banquet in Turin, so I tied it to a passing swallow. The bird flew to Africa and back. The tooth returned by post, polished and much improved by travel, and I set it back with glue.

Chess with the Czar lasted eleven winters. He moved a pawn. I took a nap. He moved a knight. I had a son. When at last I won, the queen on the board winked at me, and the Czar sent me a sleigh full of plums for my trouble.

Mount Etna owed me a favor after I cleaned its throat. I went down with a long broom and a wet towel. Soot flew, sparks rained, and the mountain coughed up a lost Roman. Now it smokes only on Sundays, and the farmers below leave me lemons by the cart.

Sharks fear only one thing, and that is my singing. I fell from a ship near Bermuda and struck up a hymn. Forty.