Maharaja Blues

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...

In lands where laurels bloom for brains, Where knights seek truth, not golden chains, There rode a lord of orange hue, Whose praise for self outshone the dew. His helm was vast, his greaves immense, His cuirass forged at great expense. “Behold!” he cried, “my armoured grace! The world shall weep before my face!” He posed, he preened, he puffed his chest, Declared his joust would beat the rest. He mocked the meek, he scorned the wise, And eyed the most Nobel of prize. But lo! The day of tourney came, He clanked toward his fleeting fame. His steed, once proud, now bowed in dread “Too much,” it neighed, “this orange head!” The saddle slipped, the girth gave way, The horse took flight in wild dismay. Sir Tangerine, a bouncing gourd, Was dragged like laundry by his sword. Through mud and moat, through hedge and thorn, He flailed like laundry freshly shorn. His helm spun thrice, his plume went flat, He lost his grip and then his hat. At last he stopped, a dented wreck, With frogs and daisies...