Flurry. Scurry.

Marv and Bert rode through all of Wyoming and most of West Texas in silence.
“Okay, let’s play a game,” Bert said. “I’ll say a word, then you say whatever it reminds you of.”
“Okay, go.”
“Alright then, Veronica,” Bert said.
Marv thought a moment. “Harmonica,” he said.
“Why’d you say that?”
“Rhymes with ‘Veronica.’”
“Hmm, okay, but it doesn’t have to just rhyme. Let’s try another. Veronique.”
“Huh?”
“Ver-oh-neek,” Bert overenunciated.
“Unique.” Marv responded.
Bert regarded Marvin for some time disapprovingly. “Verona.”
“Pomona.”
No sooner voiced than Bert was all a-twitter. “No no no. You’re just rhyming!. You can say anything in the whole English language, but you’re just doing nursery rhyme words. See-saw Marjorie Daw,” he shook his head from side to side.
Marv didn’t take being mocked too well. “Hey, what about you?”
“What about me.”
“Why do you just keep saying ‘Veronica’? Who’s Veronica?”
“I wasn’t”
“Were so.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were.”
“Not. I also said ‘Verona’, like Two Gentlemen from Verona.
Marv thought a while. “Okay, now you try it, smart guy: persimmon.”
“Richard.” Bert shot back immediately.
“What? What does ‘Richard’ have a bat’s ass to do with ‘persimmon’?”
“Richard Simmons, get it? The exercise guy on tv?”
Marvin groaned. Soon silence seemed the lesser evil once more.