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.