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The Epic of Raymundo: The Noodly Bard 
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Joined: Mon Aug 11, 2008 8:41 pm
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Silence! Let silence come ‘mongst he and she,
Husband, child and wife,
Men of garb o’ red or green or royal blue,
And I shall tell tale of noodle to thee.

No mere noodle neither, not he,
The one of noodle called Raymundo.
Noodle destined not for plate nor stew,
But noodle destined to be legen’dry.

Raymundo, born of wheat and strange decree
At what god’s orders we do not know.
Yet Raymundo rose, and arms he threw
To heavens and sang, for a bard was he.

Sing sing sing, the noddle sang free,
His passions unmatched,
Though tone not he knew,
Only did Raymundo sing for glee.

Now to the fields came Farmer Bree.
Master of the rolls of wheat,
And to his plains Bree flew
When he beheld the cries and scree.

Farmer starred in confusion and weak knee,
At this creature most bizarre.
Before discarding thoughts as one does old shoe,
And judged Raymundo tasty with ghee.

“My brethren, who cut you to such degree?”
Raymundo sobbed down unto the wheat.
“Such murderers should be found and run through!
And their corpses hung upon a tree!”

“Such angry words, yet chose you not to flee,”
Bree said in hunger and disdain.
“Why, I could feed my fam’ly with noodle big as you,
Come here you! You belong to me!”

Raymundo did struggle ‘gainst Farmer Bree,
“You will not make me silent!
I have grander purpose, it must be true,
Why else would noodle have sense of fancy-free?”

“You are meal and meal alone, just see,
I have eaten many of this field before!
I planted seed from which you grew,
And so you are mine, screeching noodle you!”

Bree chased Raymundo, o’er woods and to sea,
As the noodle cried to the heavens,
Begging that his god guide him through,
And away from Farmer on his spree.

God or luck, either could it be
That led Raymundo into the ocean,
And as he dashed into the blue,
He tried to sing, sounding as a banshee.

Bree did follow Raymundo, intent to eat him with pea,
But forgot that he was a man and must breath.
Farther and farther he swam, water he did spew,
Until he was too far out, though the noodle he did see.

He wrapped a hand around Raymundo’s knee.
The bard kicked and shouted,
But the farmer he could not outdo
As Bree screamed in victory.

But Bree had failed then to forsee,
That Raymundo was a piece of pasta,
And could swim far and come to,
But Bree was just a man, and could not swim back the thirty-three.

So then did Bree drown, as Raymundo swam in jubilee.
And it was then Raymundo decided,
His purpose and origins he must knew,
Before day he be eaten ‘pon one’s settee.

He took Raymundo as his identity
On his journey all ‘cross Torsh,
To find his purpose true,
All the while singing, his pitch horrid and shrew.

_________________
I'll surely think of something more clever I could have said in this post several hours from now.


Tue Nov 18, 2014 5:00 pm
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