Morris whacks lyrical (Johnson)

…what is more I shall in fact be there as alchemist in residence, for lo I have distilled the elixir of life. Pass me the test tube Johnson! Mwaaerk! That is not my elixir Johnson, that is in fact a pot noodle, how am I supposed to raise the dead with that? In fact on closer inspection that is not even a pot noodle, rather it is a waterlogged baked potato rather clumsily wedged into an empty carton and smeared with some kind of partially melted no frills margarine substitute.

Is this some kind of ill advised commercial venture Johnson? I will adjudge its potential for I am the final arbiter of fiscal profit projections, lord of all business viability measurement. Much like the man from dragon’s den on the television. And here comes the dragon and that is no longer a baked potato that are tucking into, rather it is her egg,  her precious egg which represented the whole of her race, and there you are with the soft boiled remnants of the last embryo Draco Nobilis dribbled all over the front of your clown suit. What are you wearing a clown suit for Johnson? The dragon is not laughing (WHOOOOOOOSH! (Conflagration noise) Mweeeauuuurgh!) Ho Ho ho! You are fired!

This all reminds me of a song in fact Johnson. You know the one, it is about a dragon and a, hmm oh dearie me, my memory is failing me. Where is Giordano Bruno when you need him. In fact he is there, behind you, armed with large garden shears, poised to strike. A swift blow renders your topiary hedgehog in twain, you will not win first prize in the box tree hedgehog competition now Johnson. Cheers for that Giordano, though that is not what I required you for. What was I saying anyway? A song about a wagon you say Johnson. Well I am feeling a little peckish, pass me a wagon wheel Yolanda? What do you mean you have not been to Tesco yet? Why did you not do the order online as I specifically requested, thus the shopping would have been here by now. You have ruined my evening, and here comes stupid and literally interpretive Johnson with an racing bicycle wheel. This is not what I had in mind. Do we have any of those new water logged baked potato in a pot snacks left? They are my favourite. Eh Smaug and Giordano?

“Ho, h’excuse me h’sir, that’ll be h’two pounds h’fifty for that h’wagon wheel and your h’onion flavour spud pot”

What?! Two pounds fifty? Blue sounds nifty? Very well Johnson two dozen pairs of blue suede shoes it is. Shall I wrap them up or will you eat them now? Or will they eat you now? Two dozen pairs of glue crazed shrews, tearing at your pasty flesh. Burrowing into your thorax, feebly you try to swat them away but this merely enrages them further. Your last conscious thought is one of agony and regret as your crimson blood stains the hitherto immaculate floor of your newsagency. Your adventure ends here. I feel better now. Pass me a wagon wheel Yolanda…

Or should a say Dragon seal! Twenty hit dice, armour class minus five. Attacks with two claws and one bite, the bite is poisonous! Yolanda make your saving throw or you will surely die! The dragon seal has taken all of the wagon wheels. Wait on a moment, that is the title of the song I was trying to remember. Only now it is true thus demonstrating the gossamer thin veil between art and reality. Wagon wheels are to it  what gold pieces are to the seasoned adventurer, granting it experience points to go up in a balloon. I will hitch a ride as I always fancied a go on on, though I still cannot remember the tune. Where is my xylophone? I will endeavour to work it out…

Published in: on September 8, 2010 at 10:57 am  Leave a Comment  

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