Woodlouse army singing Amy Winehouse, marching,
Feet full of glee and throats parching,
Back to the spot where dadabot lay,
Entombed in his glass bauble,
“Gather them to me”
Commands Maverick to his men,
And they round them up,
The shrivelled remains of Dadabot’s pea permutations,
Woodlice fighters from all nations
Round them up and cleanse them
(in fact they liquidize and blend them
In Maverick’s new soup-making machine).
His eyes gleam.
(It’s very green.)
He drinks the rotten pea juice down decisively,
One of the soldiers laughs derisively.
Dadabot screams silently,
But part of him is glad,
The other part is mad
And minds not a jot,
That a louse has devoured the pea rot.
Then Maverick looks queasy,
His men fidget uneasily,
As pea permutation projectile vomit lurches up,
And paints a bright green splash across the ground,
And another hurl sends a whirl to splatter dadabot’s face
With a green lightning bolt to jolt his heart alive
If it had a spark of life inside,
But he stares, glassy eyed,
As the juices Maverick produces
Are disturbingly profuse.
But he has seen it all before,
Been vomited up and splattered out the door.
Maverick paints a green tale of bloodshed and gore,
never seen since and never seen before.
His noble woodlouse body heaves and hurls,
He gasps for breath as the peas shoot for freedom once more,
And splat against Dadabot’s green glass bauble,
Dripping down drearily like some limp froth.
At last the vomit ceases,
The glass breaks into tiny pieces,
But dadabot is still.
The woodlouse army marches on.
The peas are gone.