The Lion, The Witch, and the Mushroom (And the Beef Stew, and the Voyage, and other such things as were needed to bring forth the Art of the Artist)
Interlude ...
Whimsy in the Style of Lewis Carroll (albeit with less narcotic influence ...)
Note to the reader: Commas and periods are deliberately inserted in order create pauses. Think of many sentences as stanzas of poetry in-lined. There is sometimes (but not always) a rhythmic quality to the sentence structure. You are encouraged (and potentially challenged) to read this so as to try and find a sense of rhythm.
With a *whoosh* the curtains open and we are transported to our main feature ...
The Queen of Woozles grabbed her wozzle, as away was she to the fen. Her strength though mighty had made her flighty and broken into the *soundtrack*; (Cue Music)! The drums of alarm were beaten and sounded and thus did the silence begin. She carried her spoons, in bundles of two, for defense -- if such was needed. For it has been said, by those not undead, that many a life has been saved, by spoons used in pairs, and not on the stairs, as one fought for life in the glade.
The Queen was a witch, a simple thing really, as she knew many great spells (See the Neconomicon, Volume 7, Issue 9, Solstice edition for footnotes). The least of these, was for summoning beasts and bringing to life certain yeasts. Now you might wonder, as I am oft to do, of what use is a witch with a spoon? She certainly can't fly, and with no doubt she will cry, when offered a bowl of beef stew. Beef, you might ask? I put forth this task ... find a spore of a shroom,,, quite easy by spoon! And bring it to life with some magic. The result that you see, will amaze even me, as you teach it to dance in the hay. Hay is a food that is loved most by cows, for steers will joyously eat it. And from those steers, we can order some beers, and also a serving of stew. The circle is closed and back in the fold, are those with the vision to see.
As she went forth, the voyage went North, towards the islands of Oz. She had no boat, but witches could float, so obstacles meant no distraction. I watched and I waited, and then I debated, until the heat had abated, the moon came and went, the birds flew away, the mice ate some cheese, and then were appeased, all while the Queen walked in circles. Then I called for my pen. Was I to write a tale which was filled with regale, of that Queen's pointless rambles? Or was I to embellish, writing with relish, and not thinking clearly, or smelling the daisies, and doing what I not ought, possibly could, potentially would, inevitably should, not give a try to do.
The route, it was simple, filled with rocks and things most peculiar. No moss and no stones, no clocks and no bones, no trees and no fleas. The spiders were small and the flowers grew tall. I wrote like a fiend possessed by the demon who called himself Sir Perdition -- at least that is what Google said (Refer to Figure 1). I knew I would sing, this song, or this thing, upon its tragic completion. I had sold my soul, I think for a bowl, of the very same stew of the Queen. In sadness I think it was a bad contract for I should have asked for some cheese in a flask as that's what the devil was due.
The lion she met, oh I have not mentioned her yet, was a beast of magnificent size. The lion was brave, bold and most grave, and gave the queen her full attention. Though not hunting witches, the lion saw chances, for obtaining the most fashionable cave. The lion was lost and she needed a home for which a cave would be most ideal. She knew that the witch could bring forth a snitch that would tell her the location of one most suitable. So to summon the snitch, as would the witch, for no tigress was listening at the time, the lion found wine and a thick slice of lime, so deep in the mine the reading was started, wisdom imparted, trash was carted, and the cave of mention was auctioned by convention. A bid of two shrooms, picked on the moon, by astronauts hired by NASA, found the lion victorious (much like Wellington at Waterloo). Our history now written we mention the smitten, a tigress in love with her mittens.
The story has ended and no blood was sended, the lion now home at last. The queen was a feasting, the mushrooms were yeasting and I had my manuscript finished. All's well that ends well, or so it has sometimes been said. I doubt that I feel the essence of real, as I look back on the task I completed. Rhyming is work, of a form and a kind, done in the mind, brought forth in time, finished by 9. No pie was consumed even though the circle was measured in radians. These things occur, no more will be said, ode to the dead, coloured in red, taken to bed, and now in my head. Though often I rhyme when I type to the time of a metronome sat on my desk, I am easily distracted and thus words subtracted and never is anything certain . Sense has eluded, and nonsense extruded, as words fill the screen of my life. I thank you for listening (and Llola for reading) for which you must surely wonder. Why am I hear, or what do I here, to listen so clear, to tripe and to dribble, spewed forth for to nibble, and emoting a sense of doom.
The Inenviable End
Postscript ... Tami was not intoxicated or under the influence of any pharmaceutical substances when she wrote this tale. She also turned off her spell-checker (and grammar checker)! Just be happy you don't have to live in her head and think like this all the time! And also hope she submits something new for next week and you never have to listen to this again ...
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