Tuesday, February 7, 2017

A Clockwork Oz

There was me, that is Alex, and my three so-called droogs, the Lion, Tinman and Scarecrow. They did not their eemyas supply nor did I ask, O my brothers. (Freaks of nature. Sold for faircoin lolly to labcoat carvers in jollyold.) Such unkind thoughts thought I. Right bezoomy they were, like this whole sodding Ozzy mesto. Irritativating bratchnies as well. Traipsing down a road of screaming yellow brick in choreographed steppysteps. And with musical accompaniment besides from the songbirds three! Creeching and warbling about a choodessny Wizard who’d supply the yarbles, mozg and thumpythump heart Bog neglected to giveygive. Boohoohoing all guiltylike about a poor ptitsa they’d left behind in the clutches of a badiwad baboochka. And her malenky sobaka, too, Toto or Tojo or Togo. (Tried hard and very hard to enlist Your Humble Narrator in a rescue mission. Had an inward smeck at that.) Not the sort on your side you’d want in the heat of like drat or bitva when chains whoosh and cutthroat britvas flash, brothers. Not the sort you'd want at all, to govoreet the unvarnished pravda and no lie. In thuslike monotonous fashion, the path of puke when on and on, around another twist we trod, and their rots stretched wide. Again they came with a burst of singing, and not on clef. I knew right away what I must do.

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