“That turtle thing said it’s the end of the world,” drawled Ringo Stork (who had always hated that nickname, it wasn’t his fault his neck stuck straight up instead of curving back like it was supposed to, he had a spinal condition!).
“Think we oughtta split?” worried Maul McCartney, shuffling along the branch, “or keep calm and carrion?”
“Now don’t start that again!” the rest of the flock chorused; Ringo Stork’s wings mantled in irritation, but he subsided with a grumble — puns always made him peckish, and that mammoth down there was looking peaky, which meant things were looking up.