The Beehive

I met her, that pony of perpetual prancing pizzazz, plonking from place to place with plates and platters precariously placed upon her proboscis, plying her pleasant pastry past-time with pep, at her palace, her pad, her place of propriety, Sugar Cube Corner, providing as it does plenty of ponies who, perchance a little peckish, partake in proffered provisions, it was there, where Pinkie Pie perches her posterior, that a party of prodigious proportions promised to proceed post-haste, and she, pulling and prodding, prevailed upon me to participate, to prance, to promenade in a particular pattern of paces, and thus my pitiable performance prompted her to pause, pondering my peculiar problem until, at the prompting of a pal, a solution presented as a paced and protracted practice; to wit, she taught me to dance.