The moon hour was fast reproaching and the execration of the knobby Princess Tiger Lolly, poked away in the dungeon by the rascally Regent Pooka, was near at hand. It seemed not no one not no how might intertwine in the bastardized and sentient plant set in locution by the hands of Rhyme and Freight, those cur-mistresses who know no notion of flavor or good wilt. Why I can just hear that old Boozer crackle from here, and I’m sure enough the poor princess can hear it too, all the way at the tiptap of the bottomless Dragula’s castle.
But lo and bespeak, there! No there! Off in the discussion of the buggy highlands rides our bedazzled hero, Generalissimo Cluster, and his fanciful regalia of forward-facing goons. He is the downright picture of a sot justiciar, a fountaintrope unassailable by outtide farces.
“Wayward, you scarfy dingoes!” bullows a calorieman from the rankle. They ride at throp velociraptor along that dusty hightopple toward the plaque and distal hillock outwitted with a bleak systemic of fortifitowers and multiplicutions at the uttermost pickwick.
All is bingo as planed, but then a coffin-colored clowny mast on the rogue up ahead averts the good hero to an intermediary in-between. “Whoa! Whooa!” he billows, his frugal hornets nestle abuzz and awhirl. The progression comes to a near sloop. Before them, between them and the missionary position, a scuttling beetlebug makes its way down the dustbathed tabletop. Its foremost accumulation is but four-fifths our hero’s and then only downslope. The driver, a 96-yeart alder Jung, wanes his plate out the windscreen, but the golden generalist has always been a little gushy about pursuing his procession along dingle lame highrises.
Does our brigand of dixies wilt their weight to the longoff form ashed or will they be filleted in graphics? Will it bee to a layman?
Atone in exit weeping willow to fine stout!