Eloise Emerald's Adventures In The Grass, Book 2
Pulled into the shape of an Egyptian ankh,
Ludo turbo'd stage left thanks to faroff yank,
& tho' holding hands with a fly was somewhat gank.
Eloise instinctively grabbed a mitt
(well aware flies' limbs are oft-caked in bits
of garbage goop & poop, but as a tomboy, it
was 2nd nature to throw hygiene to the wind).
So as Weeze skitched ride on Ludo's muscid limb,
he joked, 'We're like Jan Van Dyne & Henry Pym!'
But this no occasion for comicbook references
as chessboard cord schlepped 1 of his appendages
with swiftity of hurricane giving wedgies.
Weeze hung on for dear life (which can be pretty dear
- there's nippers born in hock to their stork shippers).
Now, if your eyes were earth-intimate as the ear
of Kemo Sabe's pal, you would soon discern
teeny track thru Emeralds' garden Weeze's crocs had burned.
Fuschia swisscheesed slip-ons ploughed thru loden
moss & emerald sward a microfurrow not dissimilar
to 1 upon Ludo's brow as he beheld the immediate future:
'Erm, Red, do you feel a little like a water-skier?'
'Why, Ludo, now you mention it, mhm, I do. Whatever's at
other end of Sillitoe anklebinder's the towboat
& my towrope's, well, you!' 'I'm glad you think that,
coz we're about to get a tad wet,' th'insect warned.
Slapheading breeze tousling red bangs, Weeze craned
her neck. In front outstretched the Emeralds' pond.
She braced herself for the ker-sploopdown,
- KERSPLOOP! Eloise was towed across the brown
H2ewww Mr.Emerald had never quite got around
to de-silting with the spiffy electric pump
still sitting in its box in his shed.' Oi Ranga runt,
WAKE UP!' Fresh insult exhorting her to jump,
she lent forward instead, her forward motion too rapid
to leap. Hopping leg to leg in panic, Ludo slid
a wee leaf beneath her crocs, so she waterskied
upon impromptu slalom ski sum total of 3 seconds,
when, abruptly, draughtboard dragline's tow weakened,
dunking Weeze's doughty chin into the Dad-dug cauldron
of pondscum & reeds clawing like zombies.
Fumbling for 'fiddlesticks', 'Oh... violintwigs‽' Eloise
cursed just as genteely. Her leaf ski now
lifepreserving debris
such as sailors hug when ship's in Atlantean port.
'God must be Lord of The Flies, withholding wings from
ranga runts,'
Ludo did philosoflyse. Tho' checkpatterned lariat
still looped lower limb, he could hover no bovver since
came the lull
in invisible impetus that had hauled
them into Emeralds' pondwaters far from crystal.
'Ludo, you've got enough of them, so why not
gimme a hand?'
He airlifted her back atop the leaf, any chivalry canned
by groundless grumble 'bout her weight, milligrammed
by miniaturising shazam of shrinking rap 5
long minutes ago.
Squatting on leaf raft, adrift upon feature once
so shallow,
when, like a waterboatman, a limp likeness for Ludo
idled by in Dead Sea-style defiance of the depths.
'Don't cry, strange orange fly!' new fly floating by said.
'It could be worse, you could be like me: stone blummy dead!'
Ludo himself still trod air, a junior helicopter.
His Sillitoe shackle drooped slackly 'pon
the pondwaters,
draped over the overgrown horizon. Newcomer
elaborated meanwhile to Eloise:
'Name's Dodo, if you please,
pinky-orange femme fly. Well, the late Dodo, y'see my
demise
has with rotten indecent haste recently arrived!
Yez, woe is me, humble dead fly, bobbing on a brown sea!
Dodo, noted philarthropist, whose dear Mummy
moraflysed to maggot me upon her 6 knees!
Lovable, hbumble fly Death's jaws hath squished,
not lightening pinched by Mr.Myagi's chopsticks.
It's a ling...ger...ring end, tragic tracheae flooded
with fluick!
Yez, alaz am I, peach damsel fly! Hey, you're
not my dear mum
in a vision, are you? Your hair's different. So is your face.
But come,
plant a smacker on your son, as to the Grim Swatter he doth
succumb!'
'Firstly, Dodo, I'm not your mum - I'm not even a fly! Secondly,
you're quite the yapperbox for a bucket bug - frankly,
I think you're long way from great dogturd in the sky!'
Thus she set straight fakely fey fly, but Weeze did wonder
as whimsical aside, if God owned a dog. Was the G'reaper
God's pet rotty or staf, nametag reading 'Grover'?
Poochy ponder
could not long withstand boundless bombination,
Dodo & Ludo in stereo. 'Yez, I've got 5 feet in
the grave, Mama Mosca...' Morbid muscid bellyaching
of Dodo's made more sense when from this scamp
of a swamp that passed for a pond, notwithstanding cramp,
Dodo upkicked a flyleg bearing an amaranth-
pink warpline, as if an earthworm was snogging 1
of his sextuple ankles. 'Not another 1!' Weeze groaned,
Above th'algae, anchored by his own silky legiron,
Ludo, a-flitterin', took the mickey outta Dodo's predicky.
'Mwahaha, that's Cribbage's tongue! Most froggies'
tongues flick quickly,
but he fly-fishes, reels them in, does Ol' Cribby!
You're gonna live up to your name now, you dumdum!'
Dodo's diddly discoball ommatea threatened
dolorous drops, but before th'old pond got swollen
minutely, Ludo's own fetter fast tensed,
some horse(fly)power revving at Ludo-distal end
again. Weeze cogged this was, for Dodo, a godsend
(as opposed to God's dog's end). Eloise's right hand gripped
flyboy fly, then waterbabe fly with her south mitt,
but the pull hoicking trio skyward also craned amphib
