1. DIED FOR FREEDOM (Satis Shroff) 


Many Ukranian men from 18 to 60
Have given up their lives,
For Mother Ukraine in the cold winter.
When Spring comes,
Flowers will spring in their graves.
They died for freedom
From a tyrannical power,
Armed to the teeth.
A man who invented lies
To invade Ukraine.
* * *
2. HUNGER FOR POWER (Satis Shroff) 


Deeds of courage and resistance,
Words of farewell in railway stations,
When mother and children were sent away,
To safer destinations,
While the men stayed,
To defend the motherland.
Tears rolling down the cheeks
Of men, children, siblings.
Invaded by a ruthless autocrat
A narcissist with dreams of restoring
The faded Glory of the Soviets.
Will the Cold War be followed
By an age of chaos
Violence and conflict?
A world that cannot distinguish
Between destruction and self-destruction?
No desire to legitimize the nefarious deeds.
Violence develops a momentum of its own.
The slaughter, the butchery,
Driven by the greed and hunger for power.
* * *
3. A RABID MUNGO (Satis Shroff) 


What has Russia attained?
Territorial gain and loss of lives.
The airspace has been closed,
No Russian planes can fly
Over other’s territories.
The Russian in the street
Can’t pick up money for the automat.
Russia is internationally isolated.
Russian athletes, soccer clubs,
Even Paralympics cannot compete.
The world shuns them.
A whole country ostrasized
Because of one man:
An ex-secret agent, a small cold warrior,
Who desires the glory of the Tsar.
He curses like a rabid mungo
And says: ‘The West is imposing
Illegitimate sanctions’
And Nato leaders make ‘aggressive statements.’
Pray, who bombed the cities of Georgia in 2008 ?
Who annexed Crimea in 2014?
Who has invaded Ukrania?
Who has conquered Cherson?
Who is ceaselessly bombarding
Tschernihiw and Maripol?
Trump was the liar of the USA,
And who has lied to the Russian folk?
Disinformation for his own people.
Poor Russia.
* * *
MOSCOW ISOLATED (Satis Shroff) 


What has the ‘honest’ black-belt holder done?
He has waged a war against a smaller country.
Over a week of pounding with artillery and rockets.
His 46 lorries are stuck since days.
Sitting ducks if Ukraine had missiles.
He wanted a third break for talks,
But not ceasefire.
The warlord bombed further.
Moscow is isolated from the world.
There are demonstrations
In Berlin, Prague, London,
Madrid and Brussels,
On behalf of besieged Ukranians.
Spontaneous demonstrations in Moscow and St. Petersburg
Are stifled immediately
And people arrested.
Putin’s march to Ukraine
Is stopped by people
Of the Land of Sunflowers.
The would be Tsar gets angry
At his own logistic shortcomings,
And the stiff fight put up by the defenders.
* * *
5. CIVILIANS DIE (Satis Shroff)

Putin orders rocket attacks,
Like Stalin’s organ in World War II,
In the town of Chernihiv,
Northeast of Kyiv.
More civilians die.
The Russians aim at civilians
Instead of military targets.
They want to destroy their infrastructure.
Troops advance from Crimea,
The port Maripol, a land-bridge,
Between Donetsk and Ludhansk,
Is conquered.
Putin’s troops close in on Kharkiv.
Ukranians rally around Zelensky,
The heroic symbol of bravery,
And put up a great fight. 


* * *
6. A FOE BECOMES A FRIEND (Satis Shroff) 


A Russian soldier surrenders
And calls his mom in Moscow.
The defenders are so nice to him.
They could have easily lynched him,
But he even gets a drink and food.
A foe becomes a friend.
Other Russians sabotage their own tanks:
What is kaput is kaput.
Fed up with the mad Tsar’s war and dreams.
A pretty pilot dies in action,
Some Ukranians capture a Russian tank,
And take joy rides like children. 


* * *
7. AMMO, NOT A RIDE (Satis Shroff) 


Ukranians are extremely patriotic.
Zelenky decides to remain in Kyiv,
Come what may.
His family refuses to be separated.
What a symbolic and courageous gesture.
Zelensky inspires all Ukranians
And even volunteers from Europe
To fight against Putin’s men:
Independence, democracy and freedom.
Zelensky is not Ashraf Ghani,
Who fled with money in his baggage.
Zelensky told an American,
Who wanted to evacuate him:
‘I need ammunition, not a ride.’
A historical, metaphorical statement. 


8. THE ANGST OF GLOBAL WAR 
SUBTITLE: THE SUNFLOWERS AND POPPIES GROW 

Written by Satis Shroff 

  

Putin shakes hands with veterans in Moscow.
Russia should never be underestimated;
Power is being mobilized as in the past World Wars.
Russia has not lost the war is the tenor.
The bells chime in the Kremlin like mockery for those killed.
There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

Modern and old weapons are on display,
Generals in black cabrios take the salute.
A sea of smart, disciplined soldiers carrying weapons,
Swords, salutes and martial music on the Red Square.
It’s all about defending the Fatherland
And solidarity with the soldiers.
Stoltenberg’s message to Putin is to end the war.
Bundestags_President Bär lays down a wreath in Ukraine.
Eggs are thrown toward Baerbock
At an election speech in Germany. 

Moscow’s inner city is like a fortress:
Chauvinistic and neo-imperialistic is the pathos of Putin,
The gatherer of Russian honour.
Russia a military and nuclear power,
Second only to the USA,
Speaks of security guarantees.
Reanimation of Russian Weltmacht.
In the defense of the Fatherland,
There is no family in Russia,
That hasn’t been involved in the Wars.
Russia has always fought
For a system of the folk.
‘The Nato states don’t want to listen
To our endeavours,’ says Putin.
And speaks about the neo-Nazis and foreign military advisers
From the USA and Nato countries.
‘Ours is the only right solution,
We’ll respect and honour our ancestors
And the Immortal Regiment.
We’re proud of carrying it in our hearts.’ 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

The others have Russophobia.
Today our soldiers fight in the Donbas.
We remember all who have given their lives
For the Fatherland: men, women, children. 

A minute of silence.
Only the flames of the eternal soldiers lick the sky.
Moscow holds its breath. 

The Victors Day parade honours the 27 million Russians
Who died in World War II.
The death of our soldiers is sad,
We shall support the families of the soldiers.
I kneel before you for your sacrifice.
Terrorists also exist but they are not successful.
We will care for the children.
The bomb splitters will hold us together;
An independent Russia.
We’ll orient ourselves to our Armed Forces.
An exercise in being one with the people.
All men and women shout as one: hurrah!
The military bank plays.
‘Russia must ensure the horror of a global war
Will never be repeated,’ says President Putin cynically.
The fluttering flag, the Kremlin and gun salutes.
What was in-between the lines of his speech? 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

No mobilisation in the speech today.
No feared demonstration of POWs,
No MiGs and Sukhoi jets over the Red Square,
No declaration of war against Ukraine.
No provocation to the world.
19 battalions of 15,000 soldiers ready to cross Donbas.
Casualties are taboo and the war goes on as usual.
After the parade of the Armed Forces,
Even a separate women’s battalion in skirts comes by.
Putin appears as a professional, closed personality.
The Russians really believe in the fascist danger in Ukraine.
That the Nato troops are out to help the neo-Nazis,
And are about to surround Russia. 

The Cold War worked in the Soviet days to keep its enemies at bay.
The belief is that the future belongs to Russia,
Although the launching of the invasion in Ukraine
Was the biggest military blunder.
A retreat from Ukraine would mean Putin
Has lost the battle and his face.
Seventy years of refraining from using the nukes;
A path has to be found for mighty Russia
To leave Ukraine in a dignified manner. 

The heavy, cumbersome tanks come:
A display of hardware that Ukrainians love to destroy,
So long as they have the right weapons.
Soldiers popping their heads out of the tanks,
Saluting the Generals and the President.
The ugly, fat missiles with red caps float by.
Five big rockets mounted on trucks,
No angst in the hearts of these unaware souls.
Putin’s ultimate game is to set back the clock
And regain all former Soviet territories.
Donbas, Crimea, wherever there are separatists.
Monstrous warheads featuring prominently,
Warheads that spell Hell to countries where they explode; 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

It’s a bright day in May with fluffy clouds.
And the Russian brass band plays heroic tunes
For the soldiers who died like sacrificial lambs.
Then comes the all-male choir,
Thundering voices in the Red Square.
The band marches past in splendid formation.
A few nondescript global dignitaries are also present.
Putin looks short and obese as he gets up
And walks in the Red Square with his generals
Whose breasts display medals;
Enough to sink a cruiser.
Men are indeed ruled by toys. 

He holds a short speech for the leaders of the Armed Forces;
Talks with a general while walking briskly,
With security men in black as shields.
Do you hear the stutter of rifles,
The screams of missiles,
The thuds of the shells?
The vast majority don’t watch news
About what’s going on in Ukraine. 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

The rivers of Ukranian and Russian blood flow
In Kiev, Bursa, Mariupol and Donbas,
Haven’t clotted.
More blood is to flow.
This is the reaffirmation of Putin’s ambitions.
Till the troops have achieved their objectives
A formidable country of patriots, 

Rifles go up in salute,
Two soldiers bring a wreath
Aging generals with roses in their shaky hands.
President Putin arranges the ribbons,
And spends a quiet moment
In memory of the 27,000 dead Soviets.
Young girls with all their tenderness
Lay flowers for the dead;
Who now can neither touch silk nor cheeks. 

The bank begins with a clash of cymbals,
The men and women of the Armed Forces salute.
The Victory Day Parade is done with fervor and pomp.
Many military invitees lay their red roses on the floor.
The Russians feel good about the leadership.
That was the would-be tzar’s sole intention. 

The parade goes on with smartly dressed units marching past.
Putin walks and swings only his left hand.
His right hand is stationary beside his rump.
He has deep furrows below his eyes.
Sleepless nights caused by Ukraine’s resilience.
Lays scarlet flowers on coffins of the recently dead soldiers.
A general with a grandchild and blues eyes. 

Putin tries to justify the Ukraine war.
Collective responsibility for the war in Ukraine;
A country which was attacked without provocation.
A sovereign and independent state.
The Ukrainians have surprised the whole world,
With admirable sacrifice, resistance and the desire
To survive and exist as a nation,
Bringing great military losses to Russia. 

The marine troops dressed in Prussian blue,
Holding their weapons with a rehearsed pride,
Noses like Roman senators in the air,
Conjured up images of a defiant, proud Russia.
It all smells of fascism and tyranny during the Third Reich
The difference is that it is Russians who are the fascists.
Putin’s days in the GDR were well spent.
He has not only learned the German tongue
But unfortunately was fascinated by the Gestapo methods.
But Ukraine, and Crimea want their territories back. 

Putin’ s Blitzkrieg, Special Operation, has led to a war of attrition.
The Ukrainians put up a good fight,
Inflicting heavy losses to the fascists from Russia;
Their conventional weapons couldn’t compete
Against Nato hardware.
The losses were enormous.
No mention of Victory Day.
The war against Ukraine
Dishonours the dead
Of the past and present.
There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

* * * 

 
Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg and is a poet, humanist, lecturer and artist. He writes poems, fiction, non-fiction, and also on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. The German media describes him as a mediator between western and eastern cultures, and he sees his future as a writer and poet. He received the Pablo Neruda Award 2017 for Poetry in Crispiano, Italy and the Heimat Medaillie Baden-Württemberg 2018.

http://satisle.wix.com/zeitgeistliterature#!satislewixcom-zeitgeistlit/mainPage

www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle

www.spanglefish.com/satisshroff

http://blogs.boloji.com/satisshroff

http://satisshroff.wordpress.com/

Another Sunny Day

I sit outside
enjoying the
beautiful sunshine,
with my dog, and
a few beers.
Then, I have to
go back inside.

As I wait for some
cannabis to be dropped
off.

I know that it doesn't
help me, in any way,
but sometimes you
need a break from your
usual mind, and manner.

And I really need a break.

A break from reality,
and a break from
myself.

I'm not proud of it,
but at times it has
to be done. 

Sheer Joy

I know that it's really not cool to say it
But sometimes I love being me
There are LOADS of things that are terribly
Wrong in my life.

But, when I've had a few Whiskeys, and a joint, or two
And the words are flowing through me,
There's nobody else I'd rather be.
Who else would I want to be, who ?

At these rare moments, I love being me
I'm a fountain of creativity.
Yes, I may be totally pissed
Buy I'm also an artist.

Trying to help humanity
Get up on it's feet
Trying to help my fellow man
Reach his potentiality.
Or am I just a drunken liability? 

Unsteadily

I sit here,
unsteadily,
on top of
4, or 5 days
of drunkenness,
and dope smoking.

I feel great !

I feel fucking great !

But, I know that
something bad
is hiding around
the corner.

Just waiting to
trip me up.

I don't know where
or when, but I know
that sometime soon.
I'm not going to be
feeling well, at all.

I rear my grief like a fisherman

i am rearing my own grief 
like a fisherman sailing in his 
trawler. i peregrinate beyond
the exigency of the Neptune—
incarcerate by a hope of lassoing 
something big—fish. until i plunge 
into the vast of ocean. so all I hope 
is hallucination. i am beguile again 
by my thought. i goad my father to
to death—douse him into water till 
he drown. he wants me save but he 
is not saved. after all, i am pronounce 
my father dead. this my body veers to
domicile—a abode of grief. i once 
reminisce about a gold my father left
for me—a tale about a fisherman rearing 
a fish he caught from the sea in his pond 
till the fish produced thousand of fish. 
now my body, too, is a pond where i rear 
a grief till my body become a cicatrix 
after sea steal my father's soul

 
to love is to create a memory

there is a dagger in my brain—a portrait
of mààmí, shaped into a grief like an idol

called òrìsà. 

there must be something powerful in love. 

they say, a decrease with a child does not 
sleep, but this feeling keeps me awake; love 
for an unseen & grieving over palpable thing. 

to love is to create a memory— a lifetime 
one. or, how can i reverse time? & end the
pains that entwine my heart? did you not 
see, when grief dissected my chest, & make 

my heart its abode? 

i, too, try not to be grieved like a boy:
a boy whose soul is heavier than his body. 
a boy whose soul becomes a wanderer, 
when merriment gushed through his heart, 

but found no place to live.

a boy whose a grief cut him open,
& indulge a machete at the nest of his chest.
a boy whose pains flow in his veins.

i, too, try to raise, again, like a phoenix 
from the ash. but, anytime i try to tame 
the grief, i realized, “grief is a beast that 
will never be tamed.”

i realized, i love mààmí. & i realized, 
i have created a memory—a lifetime one.

THE MASKING OF DECEITS

What if I tell you I know something

About the masking of deceit and the

Usual posturing that comes so nasty and Vail

Wouldn't you want to know

That it starts with a vague tongue—

So smooth and perverted?

What if I tell you, that hypocrisy is 

More than just a mere word, platted 

In the heart of a sham, from which

Out of its abundance, he speaks?

Listen, it not just abiding to a role

Of pretences and unfaithful lies.

For hypocrisy degrades its servant

And submits the entirety of his/her

Ways unto the control of contradictions—

About what you say and what you do.

It is about harbouring a worldwide weapon

That is so casual and feeble, yet deadlier,

Than the world best nuclear or atomic.

For even, a hypocrite goes beyond what

injures it is inflicted on people. It is about

The injures inflicted on oneself—It is 

Pertinent, that even, hypocrites lie to themselves.





PROMISES OF THE SEASON

Men live to see the seasons of the sky, 

In temperates slay, while on earth—

breathing the lovely hard days of life.

They feel the scent of earthly dust when

The wind takes it course during the chilly,

Overcast days of harmattan, and blows;

with a freezing cold that leaves the

Teeth Chattering hard with a chapped lips.


The days promise, also, an extreme centigrade

During the rise of the dry spell casted upon

The earth, that makes you think If the gates

of Hell have prevailed over mankind.



WHAT A LATTER DOES

Every latter needs a medium
Maybe a word to fit in and a word-
A group of words; probably.

When you look closely, you could see how it is done; how words are screeching-
Creating resonance noises like a clangor

And how collocating they stand
Breaking a bunch of constancy
With dulcet rhythms-that soothes its usage

There are piles of ideas and a stock-
of beautiful voices
That will inveigle wars into peace

But this niche will only transcends
When there is a medium-of words
To release the puissance that will placate

We all need a medium for expression
Or/and to unleash influences
With quiddity-of who we truly are

For it only happens when there is a medium
Only then; 
We can do and undo

Thadeus Emmanuel is a writer, poet, critic and a Graphics Designer. He is a student of Economics at the Taraba State University, Jalingo, Taraba State. His articles and poems has over the years gathered reader’s sensation.

Pierced Flesh


 
you believe you believe in a piece of pierced flesh pinned

to the carpenter’s own carpentry; you believe you believe in sin’s

redemption, & for all eternity; you believe you believe in Him.

where hide those females, lovers of life, that would live just, to wash his feet?

in your land, your state, your neighborhood, or on your streets,

woman treads heavily; the source of life loosed, then she bleeds;

there are no feet to wash; once day’s focus grows nightly dim,

the killer, thief, rapist, man in the identification line, “him,”

he takes her, throws her, hits her, kicks her, then chews on her seed

as easily as if she were fruit; what follows this, you hypocrites call “life;”

what does follow in her life, which is life, & which is already of us,

unlike unformed abstract forces eventually born of evil or good via the uterus,

is the gambling of her life in a game played out by the Law, Death, in Strife;

what follows being a victim in her life, is being the victim again;

a woman is raped raped raped; while male judges preside over trials,

she feels every ounce of her entire being resisting that – that – that thing

that philosophers lump alongside prophets when they speak of “man” & Being

loses all its Nobility, Beauty & Grace to Violence & Pain;

& the judges – Souter, rehnquist, scalia, et cetera, consider the gains

brought on by their beliefs in “life” & consider this abstract & smile.

& while the wrong that call themselves the right celebrate, a real, human, woman is

walking down an alley-way towards the only help that she can afford, or knows;

it could be she goes to see a hack who takes her back to a dirt-hole in provo,

where the man doesn’t care to wash his hands, being no judge, no pilate;

could be a room full of coat hangers in indy, cincy, baton rouge or dallas;

but with no money, doctor, or help, that violence in her belly is all that matters;

all that matters is that IT invaded her; that she did not want IT to happen; she hates IT.

*

IT is sin; & she is going to get rid of it.

*

She is going down that alley-way so she can die for the sins of another.

*

She dies.  Pierced flesh.  Believe in it.

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 2

Stunted, wasted trees at
conflagration’s end along

the ink blasted creek
only dead things float in.

What remains of a bled-
out sickle moon is being

swallowed by gasoline fire
clouds. It’s always midnight

where the blackwater runs.
 
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 4

The hard work of dying 
has already taken place here

in this used-to-be-landscape
artist’s sought refuge in

during night terrors where
the paint they used to create

images became the blood
of slaves pressed upon 

spoiled canvas.

 
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 18

Sideways rain raises
blisters on all that

it touches. Still black
water is inert as a dream

image terror is trying
to escape from.  Here,

even the tree’s shadows 
have shadows that radiate

a constant pain.


 
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Blackwater with Lightning

Maybe the end times
had begun and only

the woman with a camera
noticed how the black

sky was split wide open
by crooked, spoiled veins,

electricity bolts;
heat licks the dry fallow

earth instead of rain.
 
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Swamp Bones

If the juncture where dream
becomes nightmare could be

captured as an image in
a photograph it would look

like this: massive ground root
structures like broken bones

emerging from a gripping fog
then frozen, severed from their

subordinate trunks in a fetal, 
pain of light.
 
Southern Gothic: A Romance After Sally Mann:
	Antietam (Starry Night)

An explosion of fireflies
is superimposed on paint-it-

black-night as present as a landscape 
Vincent would have painted if he arose

from the dead in this place, haunted
by the 30,000 lost souls who fought 

here and accomplished nothing.

Okay now, Pastafrieszer.  What do you want me to do?
Off Turbulino. 
What? 
Off Turbulino; who.

Okay. Go on. 
 Off. Turbulino, Off. Turbulino Turbulino Turbulino, Off. Turbulino; who? 
Okay.
Hiss off Turbulino who. 

Oke.
Off Turbulino wh’ ‘o. Off Turbulino w’ ‘ho. Off Turbulino, who? Who? Who Off? Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino, who? 
Oke oke.

Wassa! Giddyup, Turbulino! Giddyup Off! Giddyup giddyup wasa wasa Turbulino, who?
Ghasta. Mon ghasta. Mon Ghasta Turbulino’d Off ‘da big Turbulino, who? Tucumcarro-wowo. Tucumcaro-wowo who? Lastafisharians! Lastafisharians! Lasta-off Turbulino lasta off’n the fisharianisticals, too! 
For the right and the good of the mystical other world where we all end up anyway these must be—eliminated; elli-elle hey maw these must be eliminated by name haw haw hold it softer and slower please you are Off turbu—breaking up and—lino off sounding bogged down.
Owkai wooney betta; now?
Yes papillary. Esso. Pappillary. Go.
GhostFred Von Terbulino maw maw mai-sweet, and her Fred the Ghostess, arms-akimbo. Got that?

Yes go. 
Okay Rally-round the fla’ oke oke. Huh hunchydown splitt-toonea the youn’ Giddy-pap. Giddy-pap. ‘er got that? Norway gotterpap hunkily-bunqui. 
Snap?
No you are breaking way up. Way way up. 
Wrenchindafist way too tight heckindafistica. Who? Gahhh knucklyblusters. Gahhh. May I pluck please that marliebone? Off Turbulino, who? In fancydanced figuatures well written yet somehow Off Turbulino inadequate somehow Off Turbulino-too. Offensive. Off Turbulino. Very offensively off dat turbinitianned big fast Turbulino too! That off! That off! Was-shashstistickinnanne’d off pluck’ ghast of a shackilly hot Turbulino, too. Meeshashee-moo. Big cows! Big cows! Big cows go meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos, too. Big daddy swept out his pot. To feed big cows out from yelling meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos please plea’ ple’ no not me, too!

Oke oke oke. Oooo. ‘n elsewise? 
Fish-men! The fish-men! All the fish-men plus; the following:
Ghastlienne Snappudia nee Turbulino. Mangia-gashette the youngerawan’s teatglass. Avast ye landlubbers know zouppe fo’ u. Lasty tie ten rags round yer face in the interest of its big better-be-clean campaign ( you know the one failes before it starts) I am George I say it is hell being old and I am I am and I, tired before I start. 
Amen.
Tired before. I start.
Amenna-menne. 

Too many flick-slippers’ they gift me each Christmas-time.
No himagination, sus’pose.
Amen.
Tired before. I start. 
Please sew up my gash, doc. I’ll lay back’n me lickliner. Do it very very good, doc. And I’ll praise ‘u good’n plenty. Hop-Cockula! All praises all fish-men big cows’n dem dere turbulinos, too. The fish men the fish men men me’ m’n men men doodliewisician’s fast ghastly whipmen, too! Off. Turbulino. Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off. Turbulino! Turbulino Off. Turbulino Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off off Off ghasta-Turbulentionelleianed vast pocka-bock Off that there Turbulino, too! Spit hack patooey! Spit hack Off patooie’s big, vast, wallow of a Turbulino too! N-n-n-n-d’d? What gives with the prizes? Off Turbulino? What gives with the prizes what prizes these prizes and who’s off that big Turbulino o’ there, too? I don’t get why we have to do this. 

Turbulino. I don’t get why we have to do all this and b’ backsides off’n this here Turbulino, too. Oh yah sure you may praise your Gods manysizes you want, but we still got to get hatchen’ off all these here Turbulinos. Too! I’m afraid we may need additional bodies here. To do all this work this to do allk this workity wonkhonking, too. Muddy wallows fulla’ witches and one two evilly spirited spirit-men, too! Hot-t-t-t ho-o-o-t-t-t-t h-o-o-o-o-o-t-t-t-t ehah! Ehah! Ehaha!
Doc garble these down doc! 
Hot Petunia! 

<clear air>
Okay now that the air has cleared, thanks to the breeze gusted up round round baby round round, here’s. We must make right what this clan has turned wrong. Too long our roost’s been ruled by D. Act we must we must act hiccup-cause we don’t sue soi halfundanalle’s planet ‘ll be n’ hoe thrall of the Tumturbilnos hag gah do not take the healing wind from us please! Off Turbulino pawk do not take Off Turbulino Off pawwk take the healing Turbulino 

Off Turbulino pawwwk pertropterequertie healing wind off us please, Mr. Syndrome—Off noo known Turbulino cure off Off Turbulino no gone Mr; Syndrome drat Off o-f-f-f nop known cure Turbulino no known cure for Off cure for drat drat these bananas’r gone rotten yes the Pop did one time rule an entire VatiVan or two whoop-whoop this being certified torrentialezed by Turbulino by artificial Off Turbulino’ mass-aretficially prefabricated means Off Turbulino causing mass magnitation of all nearby spirits, atchoo! Heck, doof; off also may mean porefabricated t-t-t-t-t sweet sweet Turbulino Off this si the emit Turbulino Off the emit for lla good Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino lla good nem to emoc-umoc Off Turbulino tri-titularically come to the aid of their country hurculaneum-styled hoch! Time for a good old-fashioned hot drench-sweat. Off Turbulino what Turbilino? Thaddeus Turbulino of coarse he and his ten pencil-think’d henchmen. So battenda’ yon hatches.
God willing! 

What price the freeze? 
Uh, Off Turbulino Off Turbulino hackatptwatoeey splat ackoff course!  Marie-Strider Good-n-Plentiful stole ten names off a boxcar side in the Off Turbulino Off the torrential rains of the last Turbulino, Off a Turbulino, never to be repeated off, damned Turbulino! I am not Shakespeare no cut da fish-rod twice just coulda’ not meter it in, solildly, twice! 
Gasp! 
Off Turbulino.
Gasp!  
Off Turbulino Off. 
Gasp!

Turbulino run ‘round Turbulino Off Turbulino like a record bray-be must half peened brutally hard off his donkey numbered in the ear Off Turbulino numbered in its ear Off Turbulino Off yah numbered in its numbered in its hey ha numbered up filled that cup so painfilly Jerry-Loius’ expanded drug face in the middle of the AM face; yes and nothing ended coming of his big fat telethonisticanne-laboring daily-day’s big fat bash, too! H’ cut his strips so very fine, so many years. But, hot-pick; Turbulino, who imagines when something’s Off, been Turbulino for Off years, and Turbulino years until everyone’s confronted with it then yank! Yank! Tank yank ‘t down Off that there great big grossly alien looking somehow big Turbulino too! So; so! So; …. so, behind this whole big plot to purge us we when they reach a depth of ten factory-spans we stopped them there. 
No. No. Too vague. 
Why?

Factory-spans. That could be from a few meters to several thousand yards centimentrical metering meters-thick, so—be more specific, then.
Okay, Say ten feet.
Okay, there you go, here we are they can’t allowed t’ go no lower.

Off Turbulino okay there you Off Turbulino Off Turbulino there you fo’ there you are they Off cannot Turbulino be Off allowed to go an inch lower ah their battlescars behold them behold them in their battlescars first Eric Turbulino their battlescars their then, myself first Eric Off Turbulino Off Turbulino then myself Off Turbulino hint hint Off Turbulino wink wink Off Turbulino nudge nudge Off Turbulino get it hey Off hey Turbulino get Off it Turbulino hey Off hey get it go you get it wink wink nudge nudge hey ya hot copsa’ dickey, n’ fat too!
S'what ‘f it?
So this completes the narrative of the last statements. 
Gory.
Hooooooooo.

So dem thymes’ a-wastin here’s the backside’s the list shot shoo Melanie fast-turbulino off their very rocker of the defendant allegedly flying his pastor into the bricks of the and small might turbo-mind down the jang-jinglin’ deep of the place hah! Hah! ‘ff okay knives out peterpans’ wall for his homes for funerals the chains of which less’s more for the drillin’ get fast for once ouch this Turbulino Off to that side then that Turbulino Off to the other then swat; he had owned singlehanded until up to over the top of very recently his deteriorated Turbulino Off undering the deep tableplace under style, mmmmoooooo-cow, the prank d’ ‘lectrical fencegrab wow that feels Turbulino Off Turbulino funny wow wow this feels really really funny what high Off Turbulino 

Off voltage state of mind yes of course can be seen clearly by the pottering stride of thought all gone and all wrong; all gone baloney high Turbulino voltage come on under through I can hold it Off Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino look the hell at me I am holding it hurry Off con-hurry well zip zip, I’ll be damned, Willy, looks like I gone did drop dead for my country being bad enough by itself, and all wrong by the same logic, also; but all gone and all wrong together pose the insurmountable peak atop the already mountainous body of evidence hiss and boo Turbulino Off Turbulino Off boo and hiss okay, so there, St. Peter. That’s the full drip out my high death for my country Turbulino faucet’s open Off drip Turbulino drip drip Off drip drip drip Turbulino drip drip drip drip off rounded up written down and presented to you for your pleasure here today.
To wit;
Yes to wit;
We sign our names and, hey, uh, wawa.
Yes.
So. Know what to do now? Know what’s our pleasure?
No. Not at all.
Okay now, Pastafrieszer. Repeat everything to me, but; a bit slower this time, please.
But—
Just do it.