Soupy twist

"MR MUSIC — WILL YOU PLAY..."

{Score of Oh My Darling, Clementine}

1. In a kettle made of metal
   Sat a sandwich made of soap;
   Theodora's apple corer
   Sneezed and floorwards fell the Pope.


2. Paris-Cairo, leaky biro,
   Several hundred tons of sluice,
   Through the laughter wandered Arthur,
   Quite unsure of Big Bird's use.


3. Then James Galway fluted all day
   And eventually went splat,
   Up stepped Quarswell with a cow-bell
   (He was stuck with rhymes like that).


4. Enter Boffo (yea, the Poffo!)
   He was quite a boff-poff-toff;
   There stood Pangram talking flimfam,
   "Vest cwm fly zing jabs Kurd Qoph".


5. Oddly, Konrad was his granddad,
   And for Germans, "dung" is "Mist",
   "Dicky ticker!" screamed Earwicker,
   Here's our cocktail — soupy twist.
   

A sinister gentleman's raincoat

"Moo!" said an objective correlative, wandering periphrastically down the road of a new road, having all the usual appurtenances like gravity, full stops and so on (go on), full stop. No main verb, however, like the other one. It was not a new cow, not even a moo-cow. In fact it was an old cow, like most relatives. Fortunately it was also self-contradictory, or at least deluded. Irony followed it — like a sinister gentleman in a '70s raincoat following a spy. Or even a spy in his seventies following a sinister gentleman's raincoat. "That's my raincoat!" said the sinister gentleman, who proved to be Pope Karswell, the famous dead possum and week-end flute-toting superhero.

    Next week: Life. The last soupy twist. (Or — my other ear's a spaceship.)

Where's my moo-cow?

"For a moment there I thought someone was in charge," said Arthur. "But you're just another stereotype like the Jamaicans and those superfluous Bolsheviks." And he helped Hannibal forcibly to some cauliflower cheese, which had not previously existed.

"Get real!" said Hannibal, "you know that isn't a wig!"

They pressed SHIFT+ALT+CTRL+BREAK, had a garlic pizza and escaped from their limbic goatherd. Four hundred and thirty-something revoltingly mauve fried cucumbers dropped expectedly (un) out of an odd-smelling grille in the floor (for there is little gravity in outer time). "Oh my God!" blasphemed the Pope, from his painful staple-bed; "Where's Mr T?" screamed Hannibal, who had just stubbed his cigar on the door and his toe on the... door; "Where's my moo-cow?" asked T.S. Eliot, making a rather more explicit than usual appearance in the polt. Line? Not in this goon! And James Galway laughed and blew them all up.