Rewind

In walked Charlie the all-grated Grate Luddleggy Moffo of Mabblewib, shouting for all he was word, leering, blearing, steering and alkali, and all the monks were fission chipmunks. Hahahahahaha

    "Stop it!" "you're driving me insane" "Aaaaaaagggh!"

    He pushed the REWIND button, and screamed in a voice that could have frozen hydrogen, "Remember this?"

{On a scroll, imitating the appropriate handwritings}

Six eggs, half a kilo of elephants, and a tin of text. Stir well until indemnified. Serves 25, 36 on weekends, 5 in a leap year.

"This will not (therefore) have been a book." Already it is too late. Hurricane Ian MacCaskill is a found poem. There can be no guarantees, and they must be very small elephants. No two numbers are alike and I, too, have lost my umbrella.

Monstrous plagues and bubblery!