M'lords
and m'ladies, cats and kitties, felines and beelines. I want to hip you to a dig
of the wig called "Peter and the Wolf," known in the hip as "Sweet
Swingin' Pete and the Gnasher." A long-ago cat name of Sergei Prokofiev,
a symphony-head, hipped this scene and laid down sonorous sounding tracks to flow
with the soul-riffs of all the main-day characters in this solid-sending saga.
Let
us dig first.....The Bird. His sound is laid down by the flute and sounds thus........
Next,
let's dig the duck. Her sound is laid down on that, non-stop, giant-sized licorice-stick,
the oboe, baby.........
While the little licorice
stick, the clarinet, hips us that the pussy cat is afoot......
Swingin'
Pete's granddaddy is swung up by the righteous tone of the bassoon.............
And
our serious, singular sound of fur-bearing trouble, the wolf, also known as The
Gnasher (and sometimes as Lupey the Lupe) is NOT the oboe for el lobo, Jack -
No, the Gnasher's ominous riff is sounded by the French horns......
The
hunters guns are laid down by the drums.........
And
Sweet Swingin' Pete's theme is played by all of the strings, hipping us, that
our hero has made the scene, thusly........
Now
here's where it goes down hip. There was this little Russian cat name of Sweet
Swingin' Pete, and Pete lived with his granddaddy in a little, five-cent cottage
with a thatched roof and a groovy, green garden and the whole scene was surrounded
by a cloud-pushin' stone wall to keep out the predator-heads who swung out in
the mother-primeval just down past the gate.
Also
outside this wall was a beaauuutiful, boss-grass meadow with a little, tadpole-sized
pool of water. Sort of some five-and-dime brine, you see what I mean? And.....right
there, tight, next to the pond was a king-sized tree.
Now,
one day, in the early bright, Sweet Swingin' Pete swung open the gate in that
big mother-wall and tip-tip-tipped out into the groovy, green garden and he dug
that his buddy the bird was perched up in the tree. And the bird looked at Pete
and sang out, "Oh, Sweet Swinger, dig the day! Serenity city from in front."
And Sweet Swingin' Pete dug the glory of the meadow and all the Lord's bowers
and flowers and bees and trees and everything swingin' with that great hallelujah
vibe and Pete said, "Solllllllid!! The sweet Lord's singular sound is all
around, the sun is high and so am I," and so on and so forth. Y'see, Pete
had that diggin' wig with a righteous ticker and he loved to swing up with the
nature kick. Whoa!! It moved him deep and in front.
Now,
on this guhlorious mornin', the duck was solid-gassed that Pete had swunnng open
the gate and left it swung. That meant that the duck could scoot out of the yard
and take it on the toe and make it in dip-city, to lube the down and juice the
bill, y'understand. And the duck dug that this was such a right-in-there-tight
mornin' that there was no breeze to swing even a single...frond in the pond. The
stillness-serenity vibe was permeating every mother-molecule like it was ethereal
freeze-frame city. A cellular goof.
The bird up
in that high limb scoped the duck and swung down and riffed, "What kind of
feather overcoat is that, that you don't make it into the stratosphere, Jack?"
The duck rounded on this salty, feathered interrogator and said, "Word, bird.
You may be some type of slightly beat up, retarded sparrow but let me get hip.
What's your trip that you fly in the sky but don't dig the dip?" And he popped
his bill into the pond, not waiting to dig the come-back riff.
Now
this feathered debate carried on with much quacking and yakking and Pete was just
goofing, digging the quill-and-bill show, when suddenly something in the tall
grass grabbed his attention and he dug the cat making it silently through the
meadow. The cat was zoomed in tight on the quill-and-bill too and digging that
if they kept up their put-down riffing, he could make an early-bright scarf of
the bird. Say that might carry him through to supper and that'd help a little
bit.
So the cat got down to the ground like a
whiskered low-rider and headed straight for the bird. Now, Sweet Swingin' Pete
was in there tight and wasn't about to let the feline make a beeline on his buddy-bird,
so he hipped the bird with a loud riff say, "Check your hat and pipe the
cat," and the bird, ZIP, shot back up into that tower in the bower. The duck
began to cluck salty at the cat from the safety of the five-and-dime brine.
That
feline just took a Pasadena on the duck's riffs and went racing and pacing under
the tree, still dreaming and scheming on how to turn the bird into lunch on the
lawn for one.
Then, swooped onto the scene came
Sweet Swingin' Pete's granddaddy and he was drugged and bugged that Pete was out
in the meadow, the gate was open and the whole safety-scene was far too slim and
trim. He sounded on Swingin' Pete, "You must dig that this sphere can get
weird from the jump, and there's danger in the manger. Have I not sounded you
deep on this score before? You must lock up the gate and slam tight the door!" Y'see, granddaddy was double-hung because he was an old warrior stud who'd been
tight with the right and gone far with the czar and he KNEW what danger lurked
in the mother-primeval.
And granddaddy kept up
this Russian riff with soundings about the willldd...wooooo.....crazy.....wooooo.....
far-gone, lonesome, Siberian-headed, beady-eyed, double-backed, cut-no-slack-Jack,
non-stop wolves. I mean these gnashers had that cold, diamond light going around
- BRRRRRRR - in their orbs as they filled the sleds with dread and studied and
studied on how to turn the villagers into that most famous dish of all mother-Russia......peasant-under-glass.
And
as he wrapped up his rap he took Sweet Swingin' Pete by the mitt and - brrrrrttt
- headed back to the shack. But...no sooner had Pete and big daddy swooped the
scene than - WHAP!!! - Heah comes the Gnasher....strrrayaight from the forest
floorshow, doing his Lupey lope out into the meadow. That tightened the pussycat
up flat-out. It was limb-city. Whoaa!!! - claws like saws and a tail that could
wail!! Let me hip you, he shot up into that tree like he'd had a vodka enema.
And, at the same time....the duck got shook and blew his cool by stomping up onto
the grass and WHAMP!! - the wolf turned him into scarf-city. Just a quick, snack-of-quack
for the Gnasher, you dig.
So now, here's how the
scene is jumping off: the bird's on one branch, the cat's on another, one eye
on the bird, one eye on the Gnasher down below. And the Gnasher's goin' around
in circles at the base of that tree checking the whole thing out as a po-tential
stone-mother-smorgasbord. He's such a hunger-head that he's already sautéing
up in his wig a nice garlic-butter sauce to lube up the cat and oil the bird for
that quick slip down his gullet.
And, hip
to the whole scene, is Sweet Swingin' Pete, hung-up behind the gate and scoping
that his mellow meadow has turned into a very sorry scene indeed. The cat's hot
to scarf Pete's buddy- the-bird, the Gnasher's got eyes for both the fur and the
feathers and the duck is already on the other side of the hors d'oeuvre curve,
y'see what I mean.
Suddenly, Sweet Swingin' Pete
has a solid-sender wig bubble and - wham! -shoots into the shack and - zoop! -
shoots out again with a rope under his wing and - rrrrrtttt!! - strayyyut up into
the tree like he was goin' downhill with greased feet. This little cat was long
on heart and double solid on the nerve-o-meter, like he had a steel ticker, y'see.
He
swwuungg up into the tree and hipped his buddy- the-bird - say, "Swoop down
and part old Lupey's wig and gas him up, dig, but don't get your feather overcoat
beneath the teeth." Bird say, "Solid," and down he goes yapping
and flapping and A L M O S T on the wolf's nose but ...not...quite. And the Gnasher's
trippin' and flipped. Whoa! He's double-hung. He's got this ace bugbird strafin'
his wig and he wants to bring the bird down and he's snap, snap, snappin' all
over the place but chompin' up on air and air alone - he can't get on top of that
tailfeather sandwich.
'Course there was the duck.........but,
if you seriously knock your lobes on the sounds you can dig that she's still quacking
and stomping in the wolf's belly because the Gnasher swallowed her while she was
still doing the duck walk, dire and entire - you see, she's still in one piece
and isn't through with her gig yet!!!
And that's
the story of Sweet Swingin' Pete and the Gnasher......
With
the help of a buddy cat, a good wig and heart can take the fear straight out of
your garden.
OR
as Swingin Sergei might-a
laid it:
When the wig and the ticker are working
as one,
the fear of the gnasher is hung up and done.
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