Eloise Emerald's Adventures In The Grass, Book 7
'Testing 1,2,3...' His proboscis Mojo mikechecked,
before pitchpiping note with same rank trunk
that from his muscid mush protruded. 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. The worm
tuned up. In background, twinkling in his slime,
somnolescent Benzo's eyeppendages, looking limbs
like timbered totem's swingballs, did flaccidly
roll about th'encrusted drumheads of pussy
pellet tomtoms bashed for Greasy Crawlies by
the landlubber whelk. 'Wake up, you dormouse dodman!'
Mojo upbraided his slummocking colleague, 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!'
th'impatiently still weeny Weeze mithered Mojo.
'Jacinth-bristled jukebox juror, most apropos
your querimony is. From fan like you, my ego
can such a critique midflow just about withstand.'
Like 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,
As cacophonous potshots into buzzak composition
were duly songsmithied, holding our foxhaired hoyden
- she who could also be bookish - wellrounded daughter
of th'Emeralds aural hostage, it occured to her
all the Poochipoopdecks were turning a shade oranger.
Pale viridian viewers she cast further afield:
more pumpkinaceous or shocking tumeric than th'Outspanmobile,
what some persimmoniflage forage thru Roget's might yield,
were the stage, the band, the fecal furrows so like gyri
& sulci of a brown brain, all orange now or at least tawny.
Skyward her redbobbed noggin shot: since when was Sol
a binary
system? For of scale more preponderant in welkin
than the hoary summer sun, a new red giant brazen!
Her squint at this interloping globe of Martian
ginger tint did focus, & as microscopes disabuse us,
showing laughterlines to be canyons scabrous,
Snow White's bum crosshatched with 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 with shaggy apricholic corona,
as sunlight thru an eyelid, this haze of Malacandra
came courtesy of 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,
yet for coronal mass ejection, burnstalk swayed
by a jostling Jack on a hot tin beanstalk,
had Weeze erroneously eyed her cat's caudal snake,
swagger rudder. Mojo made no such mistake:
'O canine clackervalve of skygod's rearppeared,
tho' not to lay colonic cumberland scumbermound,
a brownfieldsite banquet for us Musca-vites, no.
Buried
was sister fly city, Fidoscaca, by last 2nd Coming
of Ranga Jehovah Rover! (Rather than woofing,
bilabially He growls a puzzling, basso permahumming.)'
'It's pronounced 'PURR-ING': Lucozade. Is. A. CAT!'
Eloise corrected Greasy Crawlies' frontman, yet nyet
heed was paid. Orange caromed the sun off pet's bald butt,
bugs bathed in same sodium glow as the turd burg,
bugeyes apricot-lyptically glinting as she heard
Mojo gulp. 'To quote bardfly JiMo's cute proverb
(like an emosh mousse that moulds my mindgoop),
life's 'a screaming maggot group-grope',
but our perfect sofliety's gone. Time to fly this Poochipoop coop!'
With that, he vertically vadaddled, skemosed skyward.
Cursory scan confirmed Benzo had already scarpered,
shiftily nifty for sparko snail. Scalariform side
of Skadders the worm a 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 which kaiju moggy's
backscrabbling frontpaws mitrailled, shrapfetti
o' shredded sod scatturfed between 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 for a libken
will flies seek t'acidically soften, then floover up
with their Flyson cibarial pumps. But clumps
of muck - in truth, glebucules, but not to a shrimp
like Weeze still was - hailed down, a hail of Nature's
kittylitter.
Our impavid, vulpine-mopped micronaut then knew terror
more truly even than she knew pteronarcophobia.
But...wait for it...voila! The deus ex machina
was a knight, well, a mite in shining armour...
'Kay, wellpolished exoskeleton the tough togs of the
11th hour
extricator
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