The Jazz Trimmings of Maharaja Rich Hedgetrimmerhands, a pre Halloween special
In the court of syncopated chaos, one night in Bengal, Where saxophones sizzled and basslines brawled, Came Richie the Maharaja, hedge-blessed and bold, With trimmerhands twitching for rhythms untold. He snipped through the velvet, he pruned past the guards, His blades hummed in harmony with jazz avant-garde. “Live music!” he cried, “Not dead, not canned! My shrub-sculpting soul demands Miles and Herbie first hand!” The crowd gasped in 7/8 time, the drummer missed a beat, As Richie moonwalked in mulch, trimming roses with his feet. The vibraphonist wept, the flautist fled, While Richie trimmed a bonsai on the bassist’s head. He soloed with snippers, a metallic ballet, Each hedge he shaped sang Coltrane’s “Naima.” The conductor fainted, the trumpet grew moss, And Richie declared, “Let no groove be lost!” He carved a topiary of Ella Fitzgerald’s face, Then sculpted a shrub that could scat with grace. The audience roared, the garden bloomed, As Richie’s trimmers jazzily zoomed. But just a...
