did, working the shed's controls so that the walking, wobbling construction on a chicken's overgrown legs made a run for the iron-gated exit. James Marshall Hentrails was meanwhile strumming his puppet's fingers across the strings of his guitar, making a horrible blast of notes arise from the instrument. (SPERANNGGGUH! FIZZLE! WHEEEE! SNAZZBLAT! QWEET!) Alice covered her ears. “Oh my!” she said, “what a terrible racket!”
“I told you so, didn't I?” Pablo bellowed, over the noise. “He calls this tune 'Little Miss Bonkers'.”
“Excuse me,” screamed Alice, from behind her hands, “what is that word?”
“Which word?”
“That bonkers word.”
“Bonkers? You've never heard of bonkers?”
“No, never.”
“Oh, it's used all the time in Manchester. It means bananas.”
“Bananas!”
“Yes. As in, 'completely bananas'.”
“Oh, I see,” shouted Alice, not seeing at all, because Jimi Hentrails had now started to sing, drawling his lyrics between each outburst of guitar-strangling:
"Little Miss Bonkers! (BLISSSTUMB! TANG! SHEMUFFLE!)
Lost
In a (MANGLE!) of time and a knotted bind.
(TWANGLE!) Freed a friend and awoke to find
The love that conquers, (JUZZ! JUZZ! KERJANGLE!)
(FUNKY WOOFGOSH!)
Sidestepping the snakes to be tossed
As Pablo concurs
Completely (KLONK!) bonkers!"
Jimi Hentrails then went into a long and loud guitar solo, that made the garden shed shudder even more. Alice clung on tightly to the quivering workbench, as she shouted to Pablo, “What kind of art is it that you craft, Mister Ogden? Because your latest creation is not making any kind of sense!”
“I call my art skewedism,” Pablo stated, working his controls, “which allows me to make creatures out of rudity. Indeed, I used to call my art rudism, and then crudism, but those labels seemed too crudely, rudely obvious. Before that I was making gluedism, where all the parts are glued together, and some time before that, cluedism, where I had only the faintest clue as to what I was doing. But then I realized that I didn't have a clue at all, and I started to brood upon my doings; so then I called my art broodism. But that didn't seem to fit at all. So I called it shoedism, because all my sculptures seemed to be wearing shoes. And then shrewdism, because wasn't I being very shrewd in the making of them? And then cubism, because I was assembling the cubes of moments lost. But that label seemed to me so limiting, because by then I was making creatures out of creatures! So I called my art zoodism. And then fludism, because I couldn't stop sneezing. And then chewedism, because I couldn't stop chewing. And then bluedism, because I couldn't stop painting everything blue. Ewedism: sculptures of female sheep. Foodism: sculptures of dinnertime. I've also been through moodism, brewedism, all the young dudeisms, Judeism, lewdism, nudism and pseudism. I then made a stab at whodism, because who in the mazes was I anyway, to be making such illegal creatures? And then finally, after many a strange queuedism, whilst waiting for a proper label, I settled upon skewedism, because my mind is skew-whiff with so much diverseness. This is why the Civil Serpents hate my work so: they can't stand anything that is even a little bit skewed.”
James Marshall Hentrails finished his crazy solo and began the second verse of his song, accessorized by creeping guitar:
"Little Miss Anagram! (ZING! ZANG! QWERTYUIOP!)
Completely bananas!
(ASDFGH! ]KL!) Polygon pyjama jam!
(ZX! CVB! NM!)
Awake from your dramas (#!@£$%^&*!)
Forever mañanas!"
The word polygon only reminded Alice of how far away her parrot was. “The garden gate is looming close, Alice,” shouted Pablo, over the singing.
Indeed, the shed had now folded up its chickeny legs, in order to squat itself down, some twenty yards from the knot garden's exit. Alice had one last question, as she ran towards the door, and it was this:
“I told you so, didn't I?” Pablo bellowed, over the noise. “He calls this tune 'Little Miss Bonkers'.”
“Excuse me,” screamed Alice, from behind her hands, “what is that word?”
“Which word?”
“That bonkers word.”
“Bonkers? You've never heard of bonkers?”
“No, never.”
“Oh, it's used all the time in Manchester. It means bananas.”
“Bananas!”
“Yes. As in, 'completely bananas'.”
“Oh, I see,” shouted Alice, not seeing at all, because Jimi Hentrails had now started to sing, drawling his lyrics between each outburst of guitar-strangling:
"Little Miss Bonkers! (BLISSSTUMB! TANG! SHEMUFFLE!)
Lost
In a (MANGLE!) of time and a knotted bind.
(TWANGLE!) Freed a friend and awoke to find
The love that conquers, (JUZZ! JUZZ! KERJANGLE!)
(FUNKY WOOFGOSH!)
Sidestepping the snakes to be tossed
As Pablo concurs
Completely (KLONK!) bonkers!"
Jimi Hentrails then went into a long and loud guitar solo, that made the garden shed shudder even more. Alice clung on tightly to the quivering workbench, as she shouted to Pablo, “What kind of art is it that you craft, Mister Ogden? Because your latest creation is not making any kind of sense!”
“I call my art skewedism,” Pablo stated, working his controls, “which allows me to make creatures out of rudity. Indeed, I used to call my art rudism, and then crudism, but those labels seemed too crudely, rudely obvious. Before that I was making gluedism, where all the parts are glued together, and some time before that, cluedism, where I had only the faintest clue as to what I was doing. But then I realized that I didn't have a clue at all, and I started to brood upon my doings; so then I called my art broodism. But that didn't seem to fit at all. So I called it shoedism, because all my sculptures seemed to be wearing shoes. And then shrewdism, because wasn't I being very shrewd in the making of them? And then cubism, because I was assembling the cubes of moments lost. But that label seemed to me so limiting, because by then I was making creatures out of creatures! So I called my art zoodism. And then fludism, because I couldn't stop sneezing. And then chewedism, because I couldn't stop chewing. And then bluedism, because I couldn't stop painting everything blue. Ewedism: sculptures of female sheep. Foodism: sculptures of dinnertime. I've also been through moodism, brewedism, all the young dudeisms, Judeism, lewdism, nudism and pseudism. I then made a stab at whodism, because who in the mazes was I anyway, to be making such illegal creatures? And then finally, after many a strange queuedism, whilst waiting for a proper label, I settled upon skewedism, because my mind is skew-whiff with so much diverseness. This is why the Civil Serpents hate my work so: they can't stand anything that is even a little bit skewed.”
James Marshall Hentrails finished his crazy solo and began the second verse of his song, accessorized by creeping guitar:
"Little Miss Anagram! (ZING! ZANG! QWERTYUIOP!)
Completely bananas!
(ASDFGH! ]KL!) Polygon pyjama jam!
(ZX! CVB! NM!)
Awake from your dramas (#!@£$%^&*!)
Forever mañanas!"
The word polygon only reminded Alice of how far away her parrot was. “The garden gate is looming close, Alice,” shouted Pablo, over the singing.
Indeed, the shed had now folded up its chickeny legs, in order to squat itself down, some twenty yards from the knot garden's exit. Alice had one last question, as she ran towards the door, and it was this:
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