All aboard the milkfloat

Grass is my globule
Sliver is my face
Tablespoons of auntiness
Spongy is my trace.

Origins of polygons
Diachronic sick
Honey, five and piglets
Behind the walking stick.

But when at last they entered out
And grazed the seldom sun
The world collapsed in screaming shout
(And that was much less fun).

So all aboard the milkfloat
We'll gibble down the lane
Arriving after Tuesday
And nibbling bits of brain.

You may declare us bonkers,
Quite rightly, but you're wrong,
For spongy is my haddock-whim
(And eighteen metres long).

The final stanza's name was Fred,
She liked it very much
He stapled it with beetroot seed
And used it in a hutch.

Yes, grass was my grob-yule,
Christmas is my yak,
Ladle me with noodly plobs
And get a whole load back.

The answer is as clear as air,
In Tokyo or Tangerine
And when you ask the reason why,
Touché! That's all it's been...