Away across the pixel fields,
In gleaming screens of white,
Lies a curious place of notions,
And ideas that can bite,
There’s custard here and custard there,
And toast on flying cats,
There’s litter trays with moats around,
And oh, so many hats!
There's
lots on spam, and hollajam,
and pinesap sticky rubs,
while in the mire, by the dale,
The Unabubba, bubs
There’s an enchanted tailors shop,
In the village, by the inn,
Where angry croissant patterned pants,
Scare some panicked pins.
Packs of Jekylls roam the land,
Searching for the 'curry,
Their hungry eyes and drooling jaws,
Make seals and Jinbish worry
The auto-boner slivers by,
With his fish-shaped club,
And in that mire, by the dale,
The Unabubba bubs
The tin-General marches on and on,
Along yellow custard roads,
Washington his moniker,
Some clockwork makes him go,
The waugsqueke wags its scaley tail,
And stomps its foot down hard,
A tremor now would sure ensue,
'cept waugs is made of card
A paper beast, a flimsisaur,
an origami brute,
He thunders on so silently,
His arguments are moot
Now Farmer John in vinyards green,
Waits for harvest time,
When he will reap so many thoughts,
and make some idea wine
Old Mad McRadish sews lettuce seeds,
and tomato and cucumber too,
To feed all the towns folk some salad,
and give a break from roast ewe
Peter Silly is mistaken oft',
For some one other than him,
you can hear his call if you listen,
'I'm just Silly, not foolish or dim!'
If you're quiet and listen still harder,
and raise up your ear to the sky,
you might hear a whispering, ghostly voice,
If you like I'll explain why...
...There once was a robot personage,
who clanked like a teaspoon in sink,
he was often the first one to annotate,
and his words?; 'Tis baked; see link'
Stef-baker wanders quite confused,
Voices quiet to all but he,
for most one internal monolog,
But for Stef you see, there's three
Angel, po and lewisgirl,
dance in the cool forest dell,
When they hear loud and angry trolls,
the flames they will soon quell
Drunken trolls hammer posts,
not clever but quite thick,
Vomit out failed grammar,
Torrents of mis-spelled sic
Sherrif bristolz rides abroad,
Stopping all miscreants,
She m-f-ds ideas and thoughts,
That really are just rants
The sherrif sees a rushing brook,
A river known as Teele,
Its hard to cross; a bridge it lacks,
But one man has the will
Ray scouts along the rocky shore,
testing for the shallows,
He must ford this torrent soon,
or for him it is the gallows
High above this frantic scene,
A flock of cones glide by,
Helping bakers consider,
the wherefore and the why
The ideas fly and soar and swoop,
Then perch on recent lists,
The one that’s shaped like a cat,
Likely belongs to bliss
A hunting party, made of eight,
With seven more in tow,
Chase all things feline far away,
Kill kitties high and low
This pleases one, gazing-on,
Guy who fears the hounds,
Half effigy, half woodlands dog,
Hates too the firework sounds
The autoboner swings his club,
And all the bakers shudder,
His fishbone is like rancid milk,
from a dark and evil udder
The Robin clings on to a branch,
Scared that he's been snubbed,
And still, in the mire, by the dale,
The Unabubba, bubs
Crockery beach; the shore line where,
Tsunamis come-a-crashing,
Smash plates and bowls and cups and spoons,
Daubed in the willow pattern
On dining sets and eating tools,
Over blue bridge by the lakes,
Walks warrior clad in armour’d gear,
Yamahito - Ronin that bakes,
By china dunes, of blue and white,
Protected from the sea,
Is one beset with scones and jam,
Who drinks totally tea
Nothing stops folk baking here,
Not the rising of the tide,
Nor auto-boner's acrid stench,
Nor the darkening of the skys,
Halfbakers light candles then,
When the night is come,
To let them work at magic screens,
They chance some waxy thumbs,
A fair will be held here soon,
And others far away,
Bakers come from far and wide,
For half a meeting day
At the gathering that autumn eve,
there may be music average,
not great or good but not too bad,
so - so bands needing carridge,
Lewisgirl decends from north,
and brings down heavy sands,
to help the bakers in the south,
carry 'okay' bands
Fair Jutta queen of baking-land,
Sits in west towers, tall,
On pastry throne, with marking wand,
She could delete us all
But now its time to leave this place,
And get on with some work,
Soon to these hills, these mires and dales,
I shall return to lurk