Tales of the Incredible Hoke Robertson

I stepped off the ambos and “bam” bumped into the door jamb because I was distracted while silently working on the first two iambs of the dithyramb in my head, though it was more of a choliamb now that I think about it.  I ambulated my way past the ambrotype of the amberina framed in fine amboina with the lambrequin neatly hanging on it all the while knowing that my writing ambition was an ambsaces at best.  I felt like a funambulist who had imbibed sambuca, and knew I had enjambed on the ambivalence of Erato.  I nervously scratched at my gamb hoping it was not frambesias.  If it were, I’d soon be in the ambulance; the opposite of being as safe as a lamb in the weamb and my iambic ambit at an end.