Lexicon Obscuria
The rain had fallen for a hundred straight days.
We tried to plant crops a hundred new ways.
Lightning had struck and a fire did start.
"Finally a way to burn all the dead in my cart."
No sowing of seeds, no reaping of oats.
No silver, no copper, not even a groat.
Nary a speck of bread, cheese, or lox
We shush tummy grumbling with soil and rocks.
In Merchant Square stands ugly Bob Dobler,
who used to bake the sweetest cobblers,
Now taken the role of inundated jobler,
who whiffles the roses and scarpers the warblers.
He would suckle a skunk to make a buck,
And bunk with your Gran for a dollar.
"A tithe, a tithe," the Hollotwat hollered.
"A tithe has been called by the white hooded dope."
Up tippy-top side of Salisbury Slope,
The piggy-wigs glowered,
but mostly unbothered,
far from the flames and the smoke.
The castle king curdled and hurled down his threats,
followed by thinly veiled epithets.
"A snare has been set, a true trapper's trap, a proper contraption with teeth.
Let them without debt be frought without fret, and the rest of you squarshed underneath!"
Well Tall Benny Bollin took no' kindly to that,
and bent low to rub mud in his teeth.
"The finely folk of Merchant Square
bravely choose to live down here.
We're born from dirt and ashen earth,
so just to remind, ye'are on our turf.
We'll not be made instruments of fear."
Through all of Merchant Square, they cheered.
Never one known to be much of a crooner,
the castle king's voice went limp as a noodle.
He had tootle-ooed, though now changed his tune,
but the town folk had fudged off for a nooner.
"A waif," he whinged.
"I'm but a waft of a waif.
Three sizes too small to fill my sire's shoesies,
But a realm free from taxes will never know rubies."
Now back from their scrumpin',
The townies stayed vexed, churlish, and frumpent.
Slim Jim Mulligan shook his small, sickly fist.
He was losing control again.
"The costermonger's shelves are dusty and barren.
I'm starvin' King Marvin, and so is my cousin Darren
I may be thin but I'll break your glass jaw
if you don't send down enough vittles to satisfy all!"
"If it's bloodshed you want, you shall have your wish."
So sayeth the Hollowtwat by way of King Marvin's lips.
"Curse your name, you swampous murklin!
You gasser! You goof! You foppotee durkin!
Pick up your gauntlet and cease this pretending
Or surely we'll break you for being unbending."
"Enough of this noxious nepheliad talk,
cut the flosculation.
I'll take no more disrespect
and stomach no more preturbation."
Then Connie McCree, who could barely see,
lit and whipped a Molly Bomb.
It busted on the fortress fence,
but the caustic flames were quickly gone.
"A boo-boo," King Marvin mocked.
"An ouchie! Oh my woundikins!"
The town was stoic, they didn't balk,
and rallied up to try again.
Alas and alack,
the flimsy beast has built a wall,
burnished out of bric-a-brac,
And piled up till ten feet tall,
toughened up with leatherback,
and reinforced by warlock scrawl,
Which neither squidgy steel could pierce,
nor ballistic brass might break.
"Shazaam," we cursed, with no remorse.
"Your bully heart we'll surely stake!"
How quickly the war had knocked on their door.
Standing before them, the Pularian Army.
Watching them cluck and scratch in the muck,
The town folk felt lucky, but starving.
"They're chickens," cried Benny. "So let's wring their necks
Then storm Marvin's castle and handle him next!"
But Pularians were more vicious than any expected
And the Merchant Square Militia was quickly dissected.
The few that survived
were pudified,
and scattered to the wood.
Among them were Jerry and Teri the Burnt,
who covered their faces with hoods.
There was Marley the Mingent,
who smelled strongly of piss,
And Kexy, a witch from the Westland.
Seeking shelter and snacks,
and a smidgen of peace
They pooled their resources
and preyed for a feast.
"Come quickish," cried Kexy.
"I've cornered a beast.
A snaggle-crux, with brunt and trunk, has willowed out a phrontist.
The dreams of whom could feed a zoo all filled with snarping houndrels."
Phantasmagoric,
high caloric,
brain food was in short supply.
A tasty treat for our glubly urchins,
but this hunt here was suicide.
Like cretins bewitched by hungermares,
They slopped through swampous shallows.
Unaware that they'd been ensnared
by the very phrontist that they sought,
whose hovel was this hollow.
The foxy phrontist filled their heads with delightful apparitions.
Crispy choco num-nums danced across their clouded vision.
Floppy fish and birdy beasts cooked savory and rare,
All manner of deliciousness from across the plenisphere.
They ate and ate till their bellies ached
And none dared ask for more.
They never guessed that the meal was fake,
Just crud from off the floor.
They laid their heads on feather beds
in the fortress of their minds.
They slept and dreamed,
so comforting,
and slipped outside of time.
The phrontist filled his brain guts full with fancy ideation.
Drunk off reverie, and fantasy, and rich imagination.
Euphorically, he drowned himself in mental masturbation.
Giddy at the helm of sensationalist hallucinations.
This is where our heroes died,
their castle in the air.
Peaceful, fed, and safe,
they thought,
they didn't have a care.
Hot poison gas from the phrontist's ass
Had lulled them deep to sleep.
The farts to them were candied corn,
not booty juice and steam.
