Eloise Emerald's Adventures In The Grass, Book 7
'Testing 1,2,3...' His proboscis Mojo mike-
checked, before pitchpiping note w/ rank trunk
that from muscid mushes protrudes. Skadders plunked
solitary barb-string, tail tightening peg
at the bottom of the bow, which Eloise was agog
& agag to recog for a mag-
got's pinched crescent exuvium, as the worm
tuned up. In background, twinkling in his slime,
somnolescent Benzo's eyeppendages, looking limbs
l/ timbered totem's swingballs, did flaccidly
roll about th'encrusted drumheads of pussy
pellet tomtoms bashed for Greasy Crawlies by
landlubber whelk. 'Wake up, you dormouse dodman!'
Mojo his slummocking colleague upbraided, then
commenced improflysing human growth hormone
in sonic form: 'I am too tsetse to be short, too tsetse...'
'Ahem! Shouldn't your gulliversifying mention me,
Miss Eloise Agatha Etcetera? You were born teeny! '
the impatiently still weeny Weeze mithered Mojo.
'Jukebox juror of jacinth pate, most apropos
your querimony is. From fan l/ you, my ego
can such a critique midflow just about withstand.'
L/ James Brown, he pirouetted around to blame his band.
Poor girl foresaw a trying 2280 seconds.
As the Greasy Crawlies resumed blue sky riffing,
Eloise resumed assiduously not sitting
down. Indeed, the pootrid plenum & pong
of Poochipoopopolis to Weeze's senses propounded
zero contact the ideal. But she was stranded
until Fly Afflatus landed, or Fly Agaric expanded
couplet o' Mojo's to supersizing incantation,
& cacophonous potshots into buzzak composition
duly songsmithied. However, as foxhaired hoyden
- who could also be bookish - wellrounded daughter
of th'Emeralds was held aural hostage, it occured
to her
all the Poochipoopdecks were turning shade oranger.
Her viridian viewers she cast further afield:
more pumpkinaceous or shocking tumeric than th'Outspanmobile,
what persimmoniflage forage thru Roget's might yield,
were the stage, the band, the fecal furrows l/ gyri
& sulci of a brown brain, all orange now or at least tawny.
Skyward her redbobbed noggin shot: since when was Sol
binary
system? For of scale as preponderant in welkin
as the hoary summer sun, new red giant brazen!
Her squint at the interloping globe of Martian
ginger tint did focus, & as microscope disabuses us,
showing laughterlines to be canyons scabrous,
Snow White's bum crosshatched w/ tan ridges,
thus magnification defamiliarised, by dint of her own
radical reduction in size, a sight mundanely known,
tho' not 1 studied by choice. By glare overblown
into 2nd sun w/ shaggy apricholic corona,
yet what upon Poochipoopopolis had Malacandra's
pall thrown was Mogzilla of whom Weeze was th'owner:
'Twas Lucozade's rearend which so loomed in the sky!
Celestial newcomer's tail should have been a giveaway,
but for coronal mass ejection, burnstalk that swayed
as if jostled by Jack on a hot tin beanstalk,
erroneously Eloise eyed cat's caudal tentacle.
'Heads up, y'all!' Mojo made no such mistake.
'O canine clackervalve o' skygod's rearppeared,
not to lay colonic cumberland scumbermound,
a brownfieldsite banquet for us Musca-vites, no.
Buried
th'erstwhile city of Fidoscaca did last 2nd Coming
o' ranga Jehovah Rover! (Rather than woofing,
he bilabially growls a puzzling, basso permahumming.)'
'It's pronounced 'PURR-ING': Lucozade. Is. A. CAT!'
Eloise corrected Greasy Crawlies' frontman, yet
heed unpaid. Sunlight reflecting off her pet's butt
bathed bug in same sodium glow as the turd burg,
bugeyes apricolyptically glinting as she heard
Mojo gulp. 'Mucho ungroovio this bodes. Pretty proverb
of Bardfly JiMo, that a 'screaming maggot group-
grope' be life, ah, moulds emo-mousse outta mindgoop.
City's epitaph done, time to fly Poochipoop coop!'
W/ that, he vertically vadaddled, skemosed skyward.
Cursory scan confirmed Benzo'd already scarpered,
shiftily nifty for sparko snail. & scalariform side
of Skadders the worm, retractable ladder as he wormed
underground in 2 shakes of a worm's tail. The firm-
ament of fur her utter attention reclaimed,
for next the ginger tom's rump was patchily
obscured by meteors of topsoil the moggy's
backscrabbling frontpaws mitrailled, shrapfetti
o' shredded sod scatturfed 'tween hindlimbs
spreadeagled. He's deffo no Cat of Skornheim
when it comes to covering droppings in good time
- why, he left those flies to found a civilflysation
before belatedly tending to feline sanitation.
Now, another tarsi-lickin' midden libken
will flies seek t'acidically soften, then floover up
w/ their Flyson cibarial pumps. But as clumps
of muck - glebucules in truth, but still a shrimp
was Weeze - hailed down a hail of Nature's kittylitter,
our vulpine-mopped, impavid micronaut knew true terror
even more truly than she knew pteronarcophobia.
But...wait for it...voila! Deus ex machina
was a knight, well, a mite in shining armour...
'Kay, wellpolished exoskeleton tough togs of the
11th hour
extricator
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