Maverick woodlouse makes pea soup, and vomits


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,

Brain rotting,

Train spotting.

“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.

 

 

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The tale of the maverick woodlouse


 

I lived in dust, detritus, assorted dead skin, hair and

Miscellaneous pieces of lego too small to contemplate.

The odd cheerio,

A spider or three.

Sand, bland, somewhat damned.

Pot-bellied pig excrement occasionally

Livening up the proceedings.

Beads.

Buttons.

Brighter than the others but inanimate.

Spiders weaved their webs into beautiful sentiment,

Making joy out of dead dusty musty places,

But I could not.

My brandishing French soul felt the urge

To charge out of the bag.

I charged relentless to the hills,

And saw them,

Shrivelled from some long dead battle.

The peas.

I curl up into a crunchy ball to honour their green

Memory.

Solemnity fills the air,

For a moment.

But I toddle on, my little legs headed somewhere.

Mais oui, cherie,

A hoover bag is not the place for me.

I want to see the sea,

A tree,

A buzzing bumble,

Be free.

That is the life for me.

The wind caressing me as I roll down the hill,

And struggle my pithy little legs until

I can right myself and

Toddle back up again.

C’est la vie, cherie,

Undoubtedly.