As with each one before it, the day had begun
when a pony had raised the Equestrian sun.

And outside of my window, the town came alive,
all its early birds humming like bees in their hive.

But was I the sole misfit – there must have been more –
for whom mornings were irksome and waking a chore?

Well, it's needed for farmers of myriad types
and their noise dragged me with them, in spite of my gripes.

But that didn't bar lie-ins from being enjoyed –
an advantage to being so well self-employed.

It was close to eleven, I finally rose,
sliding onto my hooves as I followed my nose

to the kitchen, where coffee was brewing already –
exactly the thing to keep groggy minds steady.

When I got there, however, the cup wasn't done.
I'd six seconds to wait; as a rule I wait none.

With a pulse of my magic, I checked the machine
and the boiler was working, the filters were clean,

but the charm that had synced it to how I had woken
had started to fade, on its way to be broken.

Still, a quick thing to fix when I felt less deceased,
after coffee, haybacon and eggs, at the least.

But already, my skillet had started to heat,
so it didn't take long to cook, drink up and eat.

With a far clearer mind and some almost-clear eyes,
I'd a spell on a coffee machine to revise.

It took less than ten minutes, but still, in its way,
I felt it might herald an interesting day.

Though, I only just realized – forgive me my slight –
introductions are needed; it's only polite.

My name is Zevousa. A pleasure, I'm sure.
And I'm sure that my species is not that obscure.

I've a workshop and house of respectable scale,
in the modest Equestrian town of Tall Tale,

where I've gainful employment, as seems like the rules,
making gadgets, appliances, hardware and tools.

It's a job I enjoy, and which ponies esteem,
as my magical crafts must, to them, seem supreme,

but that's just how a zebra can use the arcane.
Still, it gets me a living; I cannot complain.

I was moderately busy at all times of year,
as my inbox that morning made perfectly clear.

I had plenty of jobs, though they'd all be elsewhere,
with no items commissioned but four to repair.

A touch disappointing, but hardly unique -
I'd not built something new, then, for many a week.

What the townsponies needed came first, this I knew,
but the joy of invention is hard to eschew.

And while maintenance jobs were fulfilling enough,
I was rarely (as ponies say) strutting my stuff.

Still, with no time to dawdle, I gathered my kit
and set off for a job that was urgently write.

And it didn't take too long before I could spy
a small cottage – the home of one Blueberry Pie.

She had opened the door just before I arrived,
And to greet me, she hugged me. I mostly survived.

She then showed me her oven, though not what was wrong
All she knew was that baking took slightly too long.

There was nothing she'd seen that was damaged or worn,
which suggested the problem was magically born.

So I ran both my magic and hooves down its side,
with some pulses and probes that were gently applied.

And before very long, I had found what had shifted:
its Nyama was fine, but its Telos had drifted.

Though I know those are words that your language omits,
and so 'power' and 'purpose' are... adequate fits.

So the magic I'd built it with still remained whole
but was being diverted away from its goal.

As to what was the cause, after looking, I knew.
All the fur on the floor was a bit of a clue.

So, her tabby had used it to warm through her coat,
and so taken to this that the oven took note,

meaning part of the Telos had slowly reset –
gone from 'cooking her food' and to 'warming her pet'.

Still, the fix would be simple, I quickly perceived:
simply channel the Nyama so both are achieved.

As I worked, I was talked to, at length, by Ms. Pie,
though she thankfully didn't expect a reply.

She explained why she needed the oven to bake
at its greatest efficiency – not for her sake.

No, instead her first cousin was Tall Tale-bound,
because Blueberry's birthday was coming around,

and the oven was needed for later that day
for her personal cake and her party's buffet.

It was then, to my shock, she invited me there,
and that was, I'll admit, just a bit of a scare

as I'm not the most social of zebras – not close.
I like ponies... assuming a limited dose.

Still, a positive answer seemed only befitting –
I said I'd consider it, business permitting.

So, the only thing left was to pay me, she said...
which is really the part of my job that I dread.

Oh, I like getting money, of that be assured –
it's the primary way deprivation is cured –

though I've little desire for wealth or largess
and a hoard I won't use, I would want even less.

No, my fee's not the part that I'd much rather skip,
but instead, it's the custom that they call 'a tip'.

While it wasn't a part of my homeland's transactions,
these ponies, it seems, have less faith in my actions

and believe extra bits must be put on the balance
so I'll do all my tasks to the best of my talents,

and it's frankly insulting to even suggest
that I'd otherwise do my job less than my best.

Still, it seems it's their culture, so I don't complain.
I accept it and try to cause minimal pain.

With that done, I moved on to the next job that day
which had nothing too notable; nothing to say.

And that trend would continue till late afternoon
with a clock whose alarm had gone far out of tune.

Now the problem itself wasn't new or unique,
but to fix it would take me both time and technique.

So I needed to take it back home to my shop...
which would increase the 'tip' that I'm helpless to stop.

But at least that had been the day's final appointment –
for social discomfort, an adequate ointment.

I won't bore you with how I would fix up the chime,
as the relevant part is: I lost track of time.

It was not till I'd finished that I would recall
the most kind invitation to Blueberry's ball,

And I looked at the clock with a plummeting heart.
It was hours past when it was scheduled to start.

Still, I figured I'd go there and stay while it lasted...
assuming the ponies there hadn't got plastered.

So I gathered my things and I headed on down
to the barn it was held in, not far out of town.

Now, as I was approaching, I should note, at least,
that I've not been to many a party or feast.

And I'm just as naïve as I'm sure I appeared,
so the absence of noise didn't seem all that weird

It was when the door opened I got things all straight,
that the party was over – I'd got there too late.

Now, to judge by the mess it had made in its prime,
I'd say everyone had an incredible time.

But with all the guests gone, it was quiet and bare -
almost hauntingly empty... if not for one mare.

She was pink and magenta, a luminous hue,
and her long-blinking eyes were a glistening blue.

Her hair was chaotic and fluffy and bright,
but it didn't quite bounce as it looked like it might.

She wasn't from Tall Tale, no minuscule chance –
I'd remember that colour scheme just from one glance,

so the clear conclusion to which I was lead:
this was Blueberry's cousin (named Pinkie, she'd said).

She was right at the centre, at one with the scene,
with her movements all slow but so soft and serene,

but her utter exhaustion was quick to surmise
from the droop of her tail and the sag of her eyes

and the broom she held keeping her up as she leaned,
sweeping streamers and cups to be gathered and cleaned.

Still, the moment she heard the slight creak of the door,
she looked up with a grin while she paused in her chore.

There was silence, the kind only I could incur,
as I blushed her own colour right into my fur.

Then I buried my face in my hooves with a groan,
and said sorry for missing the party she'd thrown.

She just giggled and called me a 'silly old goose'.
It would seem she was told I was quite a recluse,

and she wasn't expecting I'd pay it a call –
she was grateful I'd thought I should show up at all.

Plus, she said I could help with a problem she faced:
I could finish the food, lest it all go to waste.

Now, I almost said no, as it seemed impolite,
till my dinnerless gut gave a roar of delight.

Still, a favour I'm given is always returned,
so my dinner, I knew, would still have to be earned.

So I offered to help her to clean up the place,
and though first she refused with a frown on her face,

I made note of how tired she clearly was feeling
(which she thought, it would seem, she was fully concealing)

and I wouldn't just sit there and eat, doing squat –
I was helping her, whether she liked it or not.

And although she accepted, her cheeks both aflame,
I could tell she still thought it a slight mark of shame.

I inquired of this, as I joined in her task,
pushing right through how awkward it felt just to ask.

Even I knew the work that a party could take,
and so why would fatigue cause her conscience to ache?

But she said that that's not where her tiredness arose –
she could throw a new party right now, if she chose.

Her fatigue came beforehand (though since then had grown)
when she'd hauled her supplies here, by train, on her own.

It was two massive crates, she explained with a mewl,
and that she had refused her friend's help, 'like a fool'.

One, a wizard, had said that her stuff could be shrunk,
until everything fit in a single small trunk.

Alas, Pinkie distrusted her hooves to extract
things so tiny, while keeping them fully intact.

Still, she wished there was some kind of magical charm
that would let her expel things without causing harm.

And now, after this point, I must sadly confess,
I'm not sure what she said, and I'm not going to guess,

as I soon got distracted by something sublime,
a response I'd not felt in a very long time,

yet, on hearing her plight, I had felt it again:
that unscratchable itch in the back of my brain.

Then ideas and concepts all started to flow,
till my mind felt on fire, and my smile felt aglow.

As we finished our work and she gathered my food,
Pinkie noticed, and asked what had lifted my mood.

So I asked, was she leaving that night or next day?
But she told me that, no, she was planning to stay,

for a few days at least, as her kind cousin's guest,
which made sense, as it looked like she needed the rest.

And as we said good night, I suggested she stop
by, tomorrow at noon, at my artifice shop.

Then I raced my way homeward, my mind still awhirl,
and I wolfed down the food – please don't think me a churl.

I still tried, I assure you, to savour the taste,
but I had to eat quick – there was no time to waste.

Then I grabbed some scrap paper and several good quills
and I started to write, clamping down on my chills.

I sketched out a few plans, and wrote long calculation,
to detail out my potential creation.

Of course, storing things large or, as here, manifold
all within a much smaller receptacle's hold

was a concept well known – it was simple and cheap
and I know I could do it, for sure, in my sleep

and a spell to expel things was, likewise, a doddle.
Combining them, though, was the hitch in my model,

because once they're expelled, things need space to be set,
and the more things there were, the more tough that would get.

And to put out the furnishings, food and decor
for a party that's close to the scale that I saw?

Well, to lay things all out in a space set aside,
looking only at length, not at also how wide,

if the food's to be set down right next to the source,
and the hats at the far end, they need different force:

for the former, a gentle tap, barely a chuck;
for the latter, the force of a farmer's best buck.

Yet since this may include things as fragile as cakes,
they all have to land gently, so nothing key breaks.

It was hard, to be sure, but I had to persist.
Plus, the challenge, I realized, was something I'd missed.

I worked into the night, till my vision was blurring,
then stopped to prevent any errors occurring.

So, I promise I got... an amount of good sleep,
but woke early, as I'd an appointment to keep.

Though there might have been jobs for which I would be needed,
it seemed that, for once, all my prayers had been heeded –

my inbox was empty. The townsfolk, I'd wager,
had yet to recover from yesterday's rager.

So I'd plenty of time to plan out my device,
and to start on the blueprints, a task more precise.

Still, with hours before we were scheduled to meet,
I worked quickly, and soon, the design was complete.

I had just put back down my last technical pen
when my pink inspiration appeared again,

bursting in through my door with a 'Hi!' and a hop,
and then looking, in wonder, around at my shop.

She was far more vivacious than last I had seen,
as she 'ooh'ed and she 'aah'ed at my every machine.

Still, I called her straight over and showed her the plans,
thought expecting no more than the briefest of scans.

Yet instead, she looked closely, her brow furrowed hard,
poring over the plans with a fierce regard,

and her lips muttered silently, crunching each number.
Her mind, I could tell, they would hardly encumber.

Then she spoke up, and asked if she had it all straight,
and recounted it better than I could dictate.

Then she said an idea had just now occurred,
though made clear that she knew it was likely absurd.

If the plan was to set things right out on the ground,
all for her to pick up and to place all around...

could she cut out the middle mare – input a space
and just blast all the stuff to its finalized place?

Now, my first thought was 'no'; that the concept was comical.
The programming needed would be astronomical,

plus some method of input for each time it's used,
lest the party get wrecked and the guests likely bruised.

But while thinking of methods to plan out a launch,
my eye caught the balloons that were marked on her haunch,

and I said, with a start, that there might be a way,
but it's intimate... personal... that is to say,

if it linked with her Cutie Mark (asking a lot),
she could channel her magic to plan out each shot.

It's profound and intrusive, this form of control,
as a Mark is a conduit straight to a soul.

It's a process that I've, many times, underwent,
but to do it to her, I would need her consent.

It was hard to observe through the pink of her coat,
but I'm sure that she blushed as she cleared her throat.

Things were quiet as she pondered on what had been said,
though I've no earthly clue what went on in her head.

But in less than a minute, she firmed her expression
and nodded her head, making clear her accession.

So, I told her to come back the following day,
but she gasped and said 'Wait! I have nothing to pay-”

but I held up my hoof and I gave her a grin,
which she tried to return, although hers was more thin.

“I have no need for payment to see this all through.
For a challenge like this, I'd prefer to pay you.”

When I finished, she gulped and insisted that, no,
for this, thanks were just something she needed to show.

Her refusal, I thought, was completely surmounted,
when I firmly assured her the thought was what counted,

and she gasped with a smile that I'd not seen before,
then said “Thanks! See you later!” and zoomed out the door.

I just chuckled and gave this a shrug and a smirk
then, dismissing what happened, I got straight to work.

Now the process was mostly a standard affair,
though the size still required a great deal of care.

First, I made up a mould using specialist clay
that, once baked, was quite heatproof and wouldn't decay.

Now, most moulds would be hollow – a space with a spout,
but for vessels, that process is turned inside out.

So I made a cylindrical shape with the slop
that bulged out as it rose, to a spherical top,

And then, while that was baking and made calcified,
I fired up my furnace – my joy and my pride.

I'd constructed it well, all by magic and hoof:
all the heat of a nova, right under my roof.

(That's hyperbole, yes. But though stars get more hot,
it'll serve the same purpose, as likely as not)

Then I fed it with steel – a sizable sum,
but all needed for something the size of this drum.

And while that melted down, I remembered to get
my mask, work gloves and apron – the heaviest set,

of the kind that volcanos could not even singe -
for the sculpting of iron, an integral hinge.

Then I placed the mould under the furnace's tap,
held aloft by two poles with an anti-grav gap.

Next, I opened the spigot, to pour out the steel,
but so only a dribble came out of the seal

that I placed my left hoof, quite protected, below,
and I channelled my magic right into the flow.

Now, this served several purposes, one quite overt:
mould the metal to whatever shape I assert

as my right hoof would guide the metallic stream's course,
to its end point, where it would be held there by force.

Then, by moving that point as the metal still came,
I could fill out a shell that would cover the frame.

But while that was important, it's not the extent
to which zebra enchantment's imparted and spent.

Now, the Nyama, in this case, I didn't infuse,
as, instead, this would need a propellant to use,

but I sculpted a channel, to make such ignition
get guided to always accomplish its mission.

But its mission, its Telos, now that was the feat,
it was terribly complex to shape and complete.

For its numerous contents, it must guarantee
to hold safely and extradimensionally,

then expel them when triggered, wherever they're needed,
intact, for whenever the party proceeded.

But the trickiest task for this curious blaster,
was priming it all to be bound to its master.

The process was long, and exhausting to boot.
My fatigue was extensive, my aching acute,

till, at last, the last steel was guided in place,
and I stopped up the flow and completed the case.

Then I poured on some water, to speed up the rate
it solidified into its ultimate state.

It was left then to cool for a minute or thirty,
until it was strong, although still rather dirty,

And then, still fully clad in protective apparel,
I picked up a hammer the length of my barrel

and shattered the clay that was filling the metal.
Then, after a moment to let things all settle,

the shards that resulted from how I had struck it
were poured out right into a large wooden bucket

to either be thrown out or, should I so choose,
magichemically un-baked to one day reuse.

The last details were simple, though hardly less tiring:
a chamber for powder, a trigger for firing,

and a pair of large wheels, which greatly improved
its utility: now it was easily moved.

So with that all accomplished, I looked at the clock
and discovered, though to my most minimal shock,

that the time had flown fast: half past midnight, it read,
and so, after a sandwich, I went straight to bed.

There I slept, no doubt due to two days of furore,
like the log that the other logs get up before.

I got up around noon, staggered out of the door,
and I stumbled out into the kitchen once more.

But as soon as I'd picked up my coffee to drink,
I looked up with a blink and saw startling pink.

For Miss Pinkie was standing there, face full of glee,
with a basket of muffins hooked over her knee.

With a gesture of thanks, we both moved to the table,
and ate, and I drank, till I felt much more stable.

While we ate, she made small talk, while I mostly listened.
Her eyes, though, I noticed, despite how they glistened

and sparkled with life from her joyful reserves,
held much more than a glimmer of quivering nerves.

Understandable, given my imminent task,
and the deep raw connection she knew it would ask.

Still, we made our way over, her nerves not abating,
to where her inventive new item was waiting.

I won't tell you the process to give her control,
as that's private, between me and her and her soul.

But once done, we wrapped up with a test fusillade,
and a Cannon that shot out a Party was made.

Yet I saw that, although all the work had been finished,
her nervous excitement had hardly diminished.

So I asked what was wrong, which, at first, made her choke,
but she took a deep breath and she shakily spoke:

“So, I know how you said, with that artisan's huff,
that the joy of creation was payment enough,

but I'm just so darn grateful for all of this stuff
that I had to do something, despite your rebuff.

Now you may not want something so little and rough
but I'm giving it anyway. Sorry, but tough!”

And before I could question her strange sense of debt,
she pulled out of her pack a small, wood statuette.

It was carved very crudely, of amateur make,
but the figures it showed were all hard to mistake.

Her wild hair was distinct, as was every balloon,
quite despite the sharp angles from which they were hewn.

Though the grooves that conveyed them were made with some haste,
every stripe on my body was perfectly placed.

And the cannon to which we'd been carved out to cling
was remarkably close to the now-real thing.

Round the base of the figure, a message was chipped,
saying 'Thanks! You're the Greatest!' in Zebrican script.

Quite a gesture, to which I was taken aback,
as I thought she was seeing deserving I lack.

Still, she pulled up my leg and then placed her small figure
right into my hoof, with a gift-giver's vigor.

I felt my jaw drop, and the growth of my pupils,
as they see how my shock and amazement quadruples.

As inexpertly made as these likenesses are,
their great Telos was clear as the bright northern star.

It was made, not with magic, but just from her gut,
but I felt all the thanks she'd put into each cut.

As she saw the sheer joy with which it was received,
Pinkie let out a sigh and a chuckle, relieved.

“I'm so happy you like my inept craftsmareship.
So, if you don't want payment... let's call this a tip”

When she said that, I flinched, although, due to my trust,
it was more from confusion than normal disgust.

Pinkie tilted her head, before asking 'What's wrong?',
with an uneasy frown that just didn't belong.

So I gently explained how this didn't quite count
as a tip, I'd imagine, of any amount.

But this only increased the sharp tilt of her head,
as she asked what would count as a tip in its stead.

Well, a tip, I defined, was just cold motivation
to do the best job at my lifelong vocation.

Now, I didn't begrudge that the ponies subscribe
to the thought that I'd skimp them without such a bribe,

but as this was a thing I'd requested to make,
why on earth would she 'tip' for a thorough job's sake?

Pinkie blinked for a moment, her eyes growing wide,
and I saw quite a laugh she was keeping inside,

but she held up her hoof as her eyes went astray
and her mouth moved in silence to find what to say.

For just over three minutes, she stayed in that pose
before speaking, at last, with a boop on my nose.

“I can see why that made you so hurt and morose,
but that's not what a tip's for! It's not even close!

We all know that you'd never be short with your shrift.
A tip isn't a bribe! No, it's simply a gift.

If you do a great job, you deserve a reward -
ponies can't let such diligence just go ignored.

So, because we're so grateful for any such task,
we may give you some more than you thought you should ask.

Now, I wasn't aware the word 'tip' would appal,
but it's simply a way to say 'thank you'. That's all!”

You would think that, with how long I'd been in this nation,
this wouldn't be such a profound revelation.

Yet my haunch just collapsed – I was literally floored
as I thought of this custom I'd always abhorred.

Every past interaction played out in my mind,
with the cultural context to which I was blind.

And I muttered about all the good ponies who
I would have to profusely apologize to.

And it seems Pinkie heard, with a smile ever hearty,
and she said that she knew just the venue – a party!

Oh, and what a coincidence – looking about,
our quick test fire meant one was already laid out.

Though this wasn't the setting that I'd really choose,
she was just so excited, I couldn't refuse.

As she left to invite ponies – 'only a few' –
I thought sitting through that was the least I could do.

So imagine my shock, when the time came that night,
that when she'd said 'a few', she was actually right

and the party she threw, that I thought might annoy,
was so quiet and small – just the kind I'd enjoy.

So with Blueberry, Pinkie and some other guests,
we talked into the night, getting things off our chests.

It would seem the degree to which 'tips' had offended
had changed my demeanour far more than intended,

and because they lacked context, they simply thought me
antisocial, standoffish and solitary.

They apologized too; said that if they had known,
they'd have not been so keen to just leave me alone.

I assured them their distance was not a disgrace,
as I always adored how they'd give me my space.

Still, they gave their apologies, I gave them mine,
and they both were accepted – a wonderful sign

for my future... and theirs, as I learned the extent
of the needs that they had, that they'd thought I'd resent.

As I thought of the jobs I could maybe acquire,
the town's local seamstress, Miss Casual Attire,

got to talking about one particular case –
a small thought she'd been scared to suggest to my face.

She'd long wished for a way, far more quick than the sun,
she could dry out her clothes once the washing was done.

Still, she laughed the thought off, let her 'pipe dream' pass by,
without seeming to notice the gleam in my eye.

That was ages ago, but the memory's still clear,
never fading or faltering, year after year,

like the crude statuette I still keep on display
whose harmonious Telos persists to this day.

I've since gotten to know many ponies in town,
always taking my time, lest I socially drown.

I've been wonderfully busy, these recent years, too,
with requests to repair things and build things anew.

And I've many times had to assure all my neighbours
I'm not overworked – I'm enjoying these labours.

Still, these past several weeks, my repairs have been hectic,
with harvesters, threshers and things more eclectic

and though harvest time, every time, leaves me fulfilled,
I have still found fatigue has been starting to build

and my friends have all given their recommendation:
this strange equine custom they call a 'vacation'.

And I cannot deny that a rest would be nice,
so I'm honestly tempted to take their advice.

Also, in my free moments, though those have been few,
I've been drawing up blueprints, all labelled 'Mark Two'.

So a holiday's due, or so things would appear.
I hear Ponyville's pleasant at this time of year.

Author's Note

I like to think that every time I write a story, I learn something.

In this case, I learned that writing a few couplets, a single poem or even a character who speaks entirely in rhyming verse... is so much easier than writing an entire story in it, having to fit literally everything into the metre and rhyme scheme.

And the result? Well, while I'm confident the technical aspects are mostly competent, I have a nasty suspicion that, at best, it ended up like Data's Ode to Spot - following all the rules perfectly while still being of... questionable quality, to say the least. Still, hopefully you liked it at least a little.