Cupine

Ah, cupine! May it ever reign supreme, and waft a breeze of enlightenment upon all humans, monotheists and not. Not without the say so of the Grand Kaizumer, He who rates a capitalized title, pronouns and names. And yet He remains unnamable, not in title but in name, anonymous and pan fried.

Relax. Breathe, like a kangaroo. Embrace your kangaroo belligerences.

Breathe in Pork.

Breathe out, Cupine.

Hear the mirthless tone. Hear the fifth and octave raised. Raised in hell, I tell you. Smells of brimstone and treacle. Treacle. Sounds like the glopping, gooey sound of alien intelligent slime mold as it attacks protein rich prey. Treacle. Glop….. glop.

Back to Cupine, the all-seeing Kaizumer endowed with 87 dogs and several swine. Pork, if you will. As the staunch stench of sterner stuff prevaricates vociferously in a 270 degree Ark du Triophe of Noah’s notoriety. All them poor animals, stuffed together for 40 days and 40 knights. At least they were Templars, and could provide veterinary services.

It was they that sacked Saxon’s saxophonists, using only the finest silk sack with plenty of breathing holes. The concentrated sax energy of hundreds of players playfully playing pedantic chords, whilst ghostly melodies drimmeled cantankerously, drawing dwarfs in the sand.

Enter Echidnas Arf. A song by Frank Zappa. At this point, I feel I must Google echidna sounds while listening to “Echidna’s Arf” played by George Duke.

Now I listen to trombone heavy “Echidna’s Arf (Of You)”. So begins the quest to hear Echidna’s Arf.

Pork. Cupine.