Maharaja Blues

Mr Glass Half Empty ,  shattered liquor store owner : ‘’Alas I found my shop a wreck last night. Glass on the floor, the shelves all light. It gave me an all mighty fright, To see my liquor store’s sorry plight! And it aint any hooligan or street gang, That such destruction brang. A raccoon came, or so they say, And drank the bottles clean away!’’ Mr Cop McCop : Attending the crime scene, pen and paper in hand. ‘’You’re sure of that? A raccoon, drunk? It sounds like talk from men who’ve sunk Too deep in tales. Yet still, I’ve heard Of beasts who act beyond the word. And when in the mood They leave the wood, And hit the store Looking for more!’’ Mr Glass Half Empty: Now tearful ‘’On the security footage What an absolute outrage  I saw it all unfold Yes it was a racoon bold! He staggered in, he smashed the pane, Insurance men will count the strain. And when his thirst had had its fill, He sought the bathroom, slumped, and still.’’ Mr Cop McCop : Looking serious radioing help ‘’N...

Based on the news article https://www.lbc.co.uk/article/flamingo-escaped-hayle-cornwall-search-5HjdGGp_2/ I was born in the blush of a Cornish dawn,   Where flamingos dream and keep wings withdrawn.   But Frankie—oh Frankie—her eyes held the spark   Of a mythic escape from Paradise Park. Her feathers were clipped, her flight deemed denied,   Yet I whispered of portals the keepers can't spy.   Through reeds and reflections, we plotted our dash,   Past Copperhouse Pool in a pink-feathered flash. At 8 she was seen, still pacing the pen,   By 10 she was gliding past Porthtowan’s glen.   I forged her a path through the salt-scented air,   With a map made of murmurs and mythic despair. We dodged the gulls and the birdwatchers’ gaze,   Slipped through the veil of the mundane malaise.   I summoned the Parliament of Plumage to vote—   They passed the decree: “Let Frankie emote!...

🦩 “Four Minutes in the Louvre” — by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo   I was sipping absinthe by the Tuileries gate,   When the sirens sang of a stolen fate.   Not me, dear world—I’m plumage and grace—   Just a flamingo with front-row space. They came in dawn’s deceptive glow,   In high-vis vests, moving slow.   “Construction,” they claimed, with a basket lift. But I saw the glint of a criminal gift. A lilac rhino, horn agleam,   Plotting theft like a fever dream.   Three cats in goggles, tails tucked tight,   Slipped through the Louvre like whispers of night. One cracked glass with a diamond kiss,   One danced lasers in feline bliss.   The third—oh sly—with a velvet ID,   Winked at the guards and set the jewels free. They took tiaras, brooches, and pride,   From Eugénie’s case with a thief’s soft stride.   Left the Regent Diamond, too bold to...

The press declared a scandal loud:   “A Picasso stolen!” cried the crowd.   From Madrid’s vault to van en route,   A painting gone, no sign, no loot.   Steel strings embedded in a desk,   Now vanished in a tale grotesque. But truth, as ever, wore pink boots,   And danced between dimension roots.   For Pink the Flamingo, suave and sly,   Had wagered once beneath moon’s eye.   A debt unpaid, a canvas owed,   A Cubist chord in steel bestowed. No lock could hold what fate had signed.  Pink blinked, and space itself aligned.   Inside the van, mid autopista glide,   He shimmered in and slipped inside.   No crowbar, glove, or getaway,  Just feathers, flair, and quantum sway. The driver swore he saw a flash,   A velvet blur, a cosmic dash.   The painting gone, the van still sealed,   No fingerprints, no clues revealed. ...