uhuhuhuh….

P&P: “Uhuhuhuh… allow us to make a post, with our tools”

Bikle: Dot likely, you’ll bake a right bess of de screen and by keyboard!

Simon: Ho, we could give it a little h’wipe sir, in fact allow me to h’wipe it.

Bikle: Get off, get out, leave be in peace.

P&P: Uhuhuhuhuh not likely, or rather allow us to leave you in peace, uhuhuhuh wait for it, with our tools.

Bikle: Ho get off me you two, this is beyond a joke!

Simon: Dot h’really Bikle, h’infact you’re still in one! Frole!

Published in: on November 21, 2014 at 11:46 am  Leave a Comment  

The Bogie of Kentoby

The Bogie of Kentoby

 

On the Isle of Kentoby, there lives an old Bogie,

‘Twixt willows both blasted and wild,

And way to the side, gnawed, bleached and dried,

The bones of many a poor fisherman lay piled,

And the call you could hear was ill served to cheer,

And the locals fair shun both river an weir,

Malignant and harsh, t’would shrill cross the marsh,

And the poor folk would shudder with fear,

 

Aye ‘twas a foul event to hear the Bogle sing,

And on the dark moon in their quake,

Those peasants a kind of bread would bake,

To ‘pease the faerie thing,

They would mix up the dough with stark fear in their eyes,

Each peasant praying that their own loaf would rise,

And chant the folk rhyme as they stirred in the yeast:

“Bready my saviour, preserve us from the beast

“Save us and guard us from Bogie so grim!”

Thus ran the refrain of this primitive hymn,

 

Aye ‘twas a lyric of dread and woe,

And by a mantic art quite strange,

The risen bread would show in shame,

The most likely fellow next to go,

And return not again from down below,

And as the bread would bulge and swell each one would dread,

To scry the form of one loved so well,

Emerge from the bowl and thence to hell,

 

So on one fateful autumn darkening,

The loaf determined to the harkening

Peasants in their peasant halls,

That a certain one was called,

And so the judgement long awaited,

By rustics with breath abated,

Who is this whose doom is fated?

 

 

Their suspicions highly raised,

must be confirmed by powers praised,

For perception in this way,

thus the soothsayer is called to stay,

 

The rushlights dim, the fire grows bigger,

The yokels espy a hooded figure,

 

And now the wise one booms in rhyme:

“I am as pickled as old mother spice,

I carry in this bag three live mice,

The one my mystic mice shall choose,

Shall be he whose soul shall lose,

Look!

See my scampery little ones,

See how they head straight for your buns!”

 

The eldritch rodents glance to and fro,

At a dozen puddings all in a row,

The with a strangely gooselike hiss,

The choice is made, whose dumpling is this?

Aghast the crowd recall in horror,

At revelation of doomed brother,

But brother it shall not be this time be,

For sentenced yeoman is a she!

Yes, the victim revealed by pudding congealed,

Must meet her fate of the sand, Ah!

(Morris! I’m not going all the way to the beach in this weather,

To clubbed over the head by dressed as a Bogle Johnson!”

“Er sorry Yolanda.”)

 

So with a gag in her mouth *waits*

(I said with a gag in her mouth! Cheers Johnson),

And eyes fixed to the south,

For this was the dwell of the faerie,

They trussed her up tight,

So she could not fight,

Nor remove the ceremonial berry,

So with flourishing pomp,

She was dragged through the swamp,

The magus leading the throng,

She wriggled and scuffled,

Though her protests were muffled,

‘Twas clear she considered this wrong,

 

They were steered by the mist in this moonless dank void,

When by a faint gobbling sound the victim is buoyed,

And as they trudged down the sea road (a rough track unmetalled),

The wizard heard it too and looked somewhat unsettled,

His avian henchmen he turned to instruct:

“If I see that butterball bastard then his goose is cooked!”

The feathery roughnecks agreed with the mage,

(Except takes things literally Johnson to whom said goose was engaged),

 

‘Twas dark and cold on this old path in fall,

Its creepiness gave the Johnsons no ball,

Now that gobble again and a noise oh so quick,

This unnerving sound may yet be ‘Snip Snip!’

 

The mist lay thick, the wind was brisk,

All of a sudden came a whoosh and a whisk,

A portly figure flits through the trees,

And the wizard feels the cold on his ankles and knees,

Distracted and fuming at his clothing’s relievement,

He misses another of Clancy’s achievements,

 

The ties that bound the sacrifice are victim to that scissor slice,

And further trauma dogs the wise one here,

His mystic mice are in his ear,

Now custard and jelly ooze down over his face,

He sees Yolanda is fleeing seawards apace!

The absconding victim he spends no time a-ruing,

But sends fleet footed Johnson hotly pursuing!

Johnson’s footfall can be heard oh so clear,

Then that cry “Bohhh!” a crash!

And it’s silence they hear,

 

The yokels and Johnsons the Wizard beseech,

As Yolanda wanders lonely lost on the beach,

 

 

From the night looms a figure in patchwork cloak all disarrayed,

Mismatched long boots and bucket and spade,

His cape made of rags is tattered and ripped,

And over his rubbish sandcastle poor Johnson has tripped,

He goofily stumbles towards posse yonder,

Then trips on his cape and forwardly blunders,

“Bohhh! Boops!” He cries, “Oh who are you folks?”

“Perhaps I can tell you a few of by jokes?”

“Not bloody likely!” the wizard he moans,

“And what’s more none of your bloody trombones!”

Buckle: “Ho then, perhaps you’ll come round for tea,

At Bogle’s we’re having kedgeree!”

 

Morris: “I have no time for fish nor rice,

The time is nigh for sacrifice!

Now let me just remove these mice,

And Yolanda’s fate shall be sealed in a trice!”

 

But down by the sea in the breaking dawn,

The fair Yolanda wanders folorn,

Then in the cliff from fading shadows,

A sort of hovel itself shows,

Its oddness and squalor make her chuckle,

Then a voice from within bellows: “Buckle!”

Poor Yolanda was stunned, her frail heart was thudding,

She clutched to her chest the mystic bread pudding,

 

With Buckle in pursuit, the party make speed,

And spy the fair maiden near dwell of dread deed,

Espying the package, Buckle’s interest is piqued,

He gives it a poke, a prod and a tweak,

Then snatching the parcel from the duly anointed,

He tears off the wrappings, grows disappointed,

This angular oaf surveyed the dread loaf,

His features looking displeased,

He bruskly announces:

“Ho! I thought there’d be cheese!”

 

The party in turn arrive at the shore,

The yokels do shake when they see Bogle’s door,

The gangly fellow shouts “Bogle! I’m back it’s be!”

At which our hero appears shouting:

“It’s Bikle actually”

 

Buckland shakes his head sadly

“B’it’s really a shame,

Bi poor old brother forgets his owd dame!”

Bustling him into the doorway “come alog dow Bogle,

Dow time for a rest,

Boil up de kettle, bake tea for our guests!”

“Get your bits off be!” Bogle retorts,

As the erstwhileness of fear turns to laughter and snorts,

 

But hidden in this caper Clancy encroaches,

And swiftly escorts Yolanda to a boat that approaches,

“Blblblblblblblp! Away with me! Over the sea!”

The Turkey proposes as he whisks her away right from under their noses,

 

“Stop that victim!” shouts Morris and Bogle,

As the peasants and Johnsons just humorously ogle,

The farce before them laid out to play,

Until Morris feels he must force his way,

Wind rises, sky cracks asunder,

The Turkey’s boat is besieged by thunder!

Their yellings and shoutings seem to have no avail,

The devilish squall seems destined to fail,

As Yolanda seizes a bucket to bail,

And Clancy hoists Morris’ trousers as a sail.

 

But it is all in vain as they both topple in,

But another vessel appears carrying a bald man with a grin,

“Ho’ come aboard, Clance I dew of this caper!

I read about it in toborrows dewspaper!”

Clancy bobs up and down spouting and spluttering,

“Blblblblbp! Most undignified!” he seems to be mutterings,

“Rescued by Simon and those two tool waving lepers,

I’d rather be rescued by Pete and his peppers!”

 

Morris: “The skies do darken, the seas to boil,

The waters part with terrible toil,

The ancient deep will hear my harken,

Buffoons face a hungry Kraken!”

 

(Mwaaerk! *sounds of half-hearted splashing*)

“What from the sunless gulfs I summon mankind’s oldest of foes,

And instead I get Johnson hurriedly adorned with a few lengths of hose?

I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath,

Gits in a boat are all burned to death!”

 

But Morris’ efforts have come too late,

A remote controlled zeppelin aids the turkey’s fate,

And whilst Clancy escapes by gas inflation,

The gits boat is consumed by the conflagration,

 

Into the sky the blimp doth float,

High above the chargrilled boat,

But this balloon begins to play the goat,

Who is at the controls remote?

It gives a swerve and then a wrench,

Then plunges towards the waves that drench,

And from the dunes comes a curse in French

“Eh Alfonso, give that theeng to me,

You’ll drown that facking Clancy t’ackee

I don’t care if ‘es eaten by a squid,

But the fucker owes me twenty quid!”

 

By now the dirigible antics have grown quite erratic,

Looping and diving in a manner dramatic,

And as it performs it perilous aerobatics,

Disaster it seems must be automatic,

And from the beach they all watch on,

Buckle, Bogle and Johnson,

What should have been a sinister night,

Now is a dawn watching blimp in flight,

Yolanda and her turkey saviour,

Face a situation becoming graver,

 

It now appears the balloon a seam has split,

And a flammable gas has begun to emit,

Which sure enough soon is lit,

By a burning newspaper from HMS git,

The flaming gasbag plunges like a comet,

Towards where Alfonso lies in a pool of gin vomit,

It plunges down then loop the loops,

Singeing the Comte now as it swoops,

Round the sky so fast and whirly,

From it the cry can be heard “Realllly!!”

 

A few more loops and it crashes to earth,

Morris and Bogle convulsing with mirth,

Clancy emerges battered and dazed,

His feathers scorched off, tweed waistcoat ablaze,

Amidst flame and smoke Yolanda appears,

“Heeelp! She cries, by now close to tears,

“O.O.O. Ballow be badam!” Bikle he leers,

 

Bogle strides forward, his pincer outreaches,

He loves the sea air and the rippling beaches,

But as the claw is near to close,

Morris’ adopts a frightening pose,

And a dark voice issues from his being,

That’s quite arresting in its seeing:

“Venture not upon your life,

For this is mine own wedded wife.”

 

“Oh don’t be a spoilsport.” Replies crestfallen Bikle,

“Bi was only intending to give her a tickle.”

And turning now to address his bride,

Morris strode across the sand so wide,

“Sorry my dear, there’s no need to goggle,

I would never have fed you to yonder old Bogle,

Just my small joke on this darkest of moons,

Now quickly Yolanda, pass me the spoons!”

 

Thus saying he led her to the cabin in the dunes,

Inside there was jelly, ice cream, streamers and balloons,

80’s disco Johnson providing happy tunes,

And all across the cabin from the door to the verandah,

Is a large gaily printed banner,

Reading:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOLANDA!”

 

 

 

 

 

Published in: on November 20, 2014 at 2:56 pm  Comments (2)