You're My Main Man

Inspired by the words of Marc Bolan;-
Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes consuming the silent midnight woods. He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart of a marigold and let his molish imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and pirate pictures of rusted doubloons and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty muskets and goldfish gautlets, once worn by Henry Morgan.
The lark awoke and doffed its plumed three cornered hat to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past the crested nest of the snoring cuckoo, and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for friend Mole. Mole was on a marigold come down and sulkily scraped bluebeat rhythms with his ground-digging paw.
"Yes," he whispered, "Me and Li are going aquesting for the Lily Pond of Fox Necks."
"Li'll know all the mapping gen," so the Mole, kneeling on the soft soil, said a morning prayer to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert trousers because his molish mind knew that praying was special.