Act II Scene V

[Well, here it is, finally... THE BIG FINISH! Badooompa! Pissssssshhhhh! Until the anarchaeologists uncover further examples buried beneath the deep strata of black comedy, that's really all there is... except for our opera... and the Shakespeare play we wrote... and the radio script we sent to the BBC (you really don't want to read that, it's embarrassing)... and a natural history novel called "Silent Creeps The Meadow Leech"... and all the collected lyrics... so that's really all there is apart from all that then... Let it be known that The Gold Lamé Skeleton came up with that "Endorse It/In Dorset" pun many years before they named a folk festival after it, and that the Ultra-ettes were actually a cheerleader squad made up of workers at a local television factory that doesn't exist anymore. It's true, I tells ya!]
 

...And Ruth Creased The Yellow Curtain
ACT II SCENE V

(The fields of Flanders - A little girl called Charlady washes herself in coal-tar soup. Edna Shoulders, who's bark is worse than her bite, unless it goes septic, wipes her nose on her slave. That Psychology Student From Norwich enters, stands before a mirror, examines his face for zits, checks his stubble and proceed to shave with a soft cuddly rabbit toy. He nicks himself)

THAT PSYCHOLOGY STUDENT FROM NORWICH: Ouch! (pauses, then shouts to side of stage) Darling, have you been shaving your legs with my rabbit again?

(He exits, rubbing his chin as he goes, dragging the mirror which, I forgot to mention, is on castors. Enter Narthor That Ol' Mole, to recite a "co-operative" poem by Alan Gilzean and Muriel Young, in Big Ol' Soliloquy Style)

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE:
(in Big Ol' Soliloquy Style)
Put the cat on, Mother,
Gullet first!
Bone football
Played at an address!
Don't listen to the man
Who said that
Sniveller Ducks
Suede in the wind,
Collide in the sunshine,
Burn down the gas fire,
Bark polythene tarts.
To quote a snobbish gilzeanerism,
"Do you want to buy some bees?"
This is not what I'd say myself,
If I wanted to mock or tease.
I'd grab a mollusc
And extract its tongue,
So that when it tried to laugh
It could only say "Thrung!"
At the back
Of the Anderson shelter
Where Tenner C Williams lived
Down on the delta...
And wrote "A Flapjack Called Desire",
Also "A Paintbrush Loving Wire".
Every Tuesday he would "logpit"
With his arm
The one the dog bit,
When Santa Anna came to play.
"Green Green Green!" I"d say,
Green Green Green! A trillion times Green!
Green Green Green Teen!
Angel Wangle! Casey Jones
Was green! Green to the bones!
Was Grone! Grone to the beans!
I've used Heinz to calm the Dean's
Pet pangolin, many a time.
You know the one, the one they call Sublime,
The one with the teeth a-biting...
This is some brand new kind of whiting
That its incisors often met...
Angelo the Italian Vet,
Whose throat was omnipotent
And whose vest was always opened
To the public on Sundays,
Now renamed "Xmas Fundays"...
...Apart from Green, of course,
Who rode up on his wooden horse
And claimed the land for Albert Crun,
Noted for his flabby mum,
Without a gilt throgmarble.
Grim Fourteen Agar-Agar link
Terracotta Gainage Animals,
Gilzean Marine Pittsburgh Gainsborough...
The Fabulous Four, John, Paul, George and
Ringo went up on stage to meet The Hannibals,
Who we met last year in Capri...
Say buddy! It's Chloro-bromine for me!
Chug-A-Lug! Chug-A-Lug! Bonk! Whoppity!
Come on! Sing along with Hoppity!
"Sara-Jane had a toy
As naughty could be
And he'll slit your throat
For a toffee flea.
He's big and dark green
And if you're really keen,
He might help you become green too!"
Hieroglyphic Seagull Glue?
Get me Extension 3671809 G-R-E-E-N
And don't forget to belittle your spleen
Before you go to the cool college dance
Kool at that Lrig in the rather Egnarts stance
And kick her shins with chestnuts...
That's the way I get all my best cuts.
Or by Gnillaf down the stairs
With Der Gnidir Hood
And the Three Sraeb
Knee-boxing in the Green Room,
As practised in primaeval gloom
By Mick McManus
And Beethoven,
His friend who had once been an earwig.
"Eeearggh! Errumph! That's a bad fig!"
Screamed the Maroon Baboon of East Cheam,
Who was not all that he seemed,
But almost entirely made of wood,
Totally misunderstood...
O'Valtine was an Irish Lay-Dentist,
Not a Seventh-Day Adventist
Or a chipmunk's lumber-room.
Whoosh! Bang! Vrrrooom!
And awa' to the kitchen!
Into the oven goes the lichen
And the radio comes ready-peeled.
Like a maggot alone in a field,
I have wandered
From Egypt to Dorking,
Which earned a disapproving frown
From all over the Commonwealth
And an ex-Minister of Health.
"That's no way to treat a baboon!
You must feed it soon,
Or it will die
And then where will you be?"
When the Queen shouts, "Watch me!
I'm a boat with the ears of an eagle!"
But they did not let her inveigle
Her way into the RAC,
So the sailor said, "Oh Arr! A sea?"
Then they gave him a lemon for trying,
But added, "Don't you go relying
On us to provide your meals!
Now drink up your breakfast of eels
To the tune of 'Broadway Melody'!"
On the first day of their holiday,
They both drank a pint of woad
To give their stomachs a colour-code.
Adjusting the Thing is illegal
Unless you're the son of a beagle,
In which case, it should be okay
And there's always the very good pay
And a xylophone every leap-year.
If you find you are able to steer
A xylophone in heavy traffic...
"Sorry! Can you be more specific?"
Said the Beak
Of a crested-grebe
Who was up for the day
From St Neve.

(Small ripple of applause and mutterings ["Hmm... not their best stuff, is it?" "Isn't it pathetic when they try to make it rhyme?" etc.] GRAMS - jingly xylophone music a la kiddies' radio programmes. Hey! It is a kiddies' radio programme! Not much to look at though. Maybe we could do a big expensive back-projected animation sequence for this bit... Anyway, we hear the voice of a unassuming lady announcer off of "Listen With Moth, er...")

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: ...and who's in Chimpton today, children? Why, it's old Farmer Ned Nurton! Hello, Farmer Ned Nurton.

(FX - sheep bleating)

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Um, they're funny looking sheep, Farmer Ned Nurton...

FARMER NED NURTON: Arr!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Er, what sort of sheep are those, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: They be giraaaaaaaaaafes!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Why do you keep giraffes, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: Well, yer gets a better yield of giraffe-skin per acre...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Oh, that's interesting... What do you do with the skins, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: Nuthin'!!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Nothing, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: Nope! Oi wouldn't kill moi giraaaaaaffes!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: That's a rather sentimental attitude for a farmer, isn't it, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: But they be noble beasts, giraffes... wouldn't 'urt a floy!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: I expect a lot of folks around here think you're a daft pillock, Farmer Ned Nurton?

FARMER NED NURTON: Arrr... arr...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Oh! Here comes young Fool Nurton. Hello, Fool Nurton!

FOOL NURTON: 'Allooooo!!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: What are you doing, Fool Nurton?

FOOL NURTON: Hur hur... Oi be pretendin' to milk moy boike!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Ha ha ha, you are a funny little fellow, Fool Nurton! You won't get much milk from a Raleigh!

FOOL NURTON: Nope... don't look loyke it...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: So what are you going to do now, Fool Nurton?

FOOL NURTON: Shear it, so's Granny can knit me a balaclava!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Ahem... Captain Nurton is the keeper of the Chimpton Lighthouse... It's funny having a lighthouse so far from the sea, Captain Nurton.

CAPTAIN NURTON: A lot er folks do say that...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Do you get many ships sailing up the Chimpton River, Captain Nurton?

CAPTAIN NURTON: River? Arr... you means Chimpton Brook? Nah... yer wouldn't get a bloody minnow up that thing!

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Why has Chimpton got a lighthouse, Captain Nurton?

CAPTAIN NURTON: 'Cos it's a damn soit cheaper than movin' the 'ole bloody village down ter the sea...

(FX - babbling brook, ducks etc.)

NIPPER NURTON: (fade up under) ...Admiral Nelson was in the RAF... Aunt Bertha Nurton is going out with Father Christmas... (ducks quack)

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: What are you doing at the pond, Nipper Nurton?

NIPPER NURTON: Mummy Nurton told me to feed the ducks.

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: What are you feeding them, Nipper Nurton?

NIPPER NURTON: Oi be feedin'em false information...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Here comes your old Uncle Smudger Nurton. What have you got there, Smudger Nurton?

SMUDGER NURTON: It be a bacon sang-widge...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: It looks a wee bit mouldy, Smudger Nurton?

SMUDGER NURTON: Arr... tez that...

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Where did you get it, Smudger Nurton?

SMUDGER NURTON: It were in me demob jacket pocket.

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: Why that's revolting, Smudger Nurton!

SMUDGER NURTON: Nar... it were quoit a noice little jacket...?

(FX - cascade of advanced non-rhythmic spoons playing. Enter The Human Craig Douglas and The Pink Sweab, wreaking haddock)

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Strangeness and quark! Drain a wet liquid!

THE PINK SWEAB: ...On their pickball doo-whats, lightly laundered and how!

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: To fill the holes in their Rogatian Sundae! It's part of the proverbial "real world"...

(Enter, from the Isle of Fute, where they make the popular Fute Isle sweaters, The Worm, God, Carrot, Neon-Grafted Intestine, Shirtflannel, Norgo Henson, Bamalam Landlamb and the Quantock Hills, all as happy as a sandbag...)

THE WORM: (panting) There's a rift in the Multiverse!

GOD: That's okay! Soon fix that with some Epoch-C-Resin!

CARROT: Nanko Thrup McIntyre Spleen! My uncle's a lecturer on parrots at Harvard University!

NEON-GRAFTED INTESTINE: Bullish Home's Tours!

SHIRTFLANNEL: (wonko-ing) Fantarctic Zenta-Cot Fralnarm Gord Gorf Trallenisp Low Hay Trallenisp! Don't you wish you were here instead of me, in the Jello Sea?

NORGO HENSON: (thrubbing) Let's go to Lemming Tonspar for the afternune! Or Sutton Death?

BAMALAM LANDLAMB: (four-luggage-racked) There are times when I think that I am being attracted mystically to Shirley the Guided Antwerp Chicken, polarised from the waist down!

THE QUANTOCK HILLS: I went to see the Grey Bitty Molars last week, but they weren't really radish-addicted Gobors! They were dotting their "i"s and crossing their red "c"s...

(Exit the Worm, Carrot, Neon-Grafted Intestine, Shirtflannel, Norgo Henson, Bamalam Landlamb and the Quantock Hills - Enter Stephen de Sintere-Grated, God's Mum & Dad, Warmerson, the Intellectual Waitress, Grinton Cartuktuk, Rex and Dave and the Women of the Week, Sandy, Mandy, Tuesday and Wendy. Stephen de Sintere-Grated climbs a conveniently pointless staircase)

STEPHEN DE SINTERE-GRATED: (excretes) Forgive the truncated bolus of erudition! I have a bran tumour! I can't use this computer, I'm inputent! I'm an Errorsmith!

(The entire space-time continuum implodes with a gigantic KABOOOOMPH!!! Fragments of antimatter rush through the cosmos, demolishing entire galaxies)

GOD: Shit! Balls!

GOD'S MUM: (revokingly) Tut tut! Mind your language, young God!

GOD'S DAD: 'Aving trooble wit' young God, our Moom? Ah'll tan 'is arse when ah coom 'ome from t'mill!

WARMERSON: (ducks) Four Shanes the pole krerb, but it cost £849,2634.03... Names spread outward one-third! ...And if I were you, Fred Willbymad, vung! Rest and contemplated, Krunsterter Gated Jamstarter Germstater... It won't take long now... meanwhile, it was becoming clearer to see the Oilerwoit...

THE INTELLECTUAL WAITRESS: Expose your abnormalities? Happiness is a warm Ongar... Is there a baseball team called the Macon Minervas?

GRINTON CARTUKTUK: (retaliates, ear-wings for yurst) Create cocoa-faces, Dunlin! Insect trouser usurper, Supper! Rinko Corg the Raw Yuk! Polo Plop Doolong, Long Upper! Barthort Hut the Muck! Talbot, not Tootal...

REX: (stooping loudly into his trousers) Plot the charts! Rant, Froggy! From now on, only headsquirters fluge Runnerdale!

DAVE: (shovelling) How would it be if I boned your turkey, Lumpy Ben? I don't think I can couple the Homerdbroom... give it a twist, Rawlings, that usually causes it to murmur... I, Swindon Fire!

(Eventually it worked... Exit Stephen de Sintere-Grated, God, God's Mum & Dad, Warmerson, the Intellectual Waitress, Grinton Cartuktuk, Rex and Dave, Udmern Gowfridge on top - The voice (off) of the unassuming lady announcer continues as before. This'll give you a chance to move some scenery around in time for the big song and dance finale.)

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: What are you doing, Granny Nurton?

GRANNY NURTON: Oi be unpickin' moy idiot gran'son's boyke.

UNASSUMING LADY ANNOUNCER: What? To make him a balaclava?

GRANNY NURTON: In bloody August? Don't be daft!

(Enter [unless he never left before] Narthor That Ol' Mole)

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (as if commentating on a royal occasion) ...as it rounds the sweeping curve towards the Gosport Palais Des Béfunes... And the crowds are cheering and waving flags... Young children sit on parents' shoulders, to gain a better view... Policemen, in dress uniform, smile precisely, as the entourage passes by... The coach arrives at the entrance... and look! A young Sea Cadet marches smartly forward and proffers a bunch of flowers to the smiling Monarch... Her Majesty alights from the carriage, dressed in some shoes and some trousers and what looks like, from here, a jersey... (he is drowned out by very loud fanfare - Yes! That one!) I said "Just listen to the fanfare played by the Women's thingy whatever..." ...and as we watch the Quoon enter the building, one can somehow sense her approbation, for this magnificently refurbished Palais Des Béfunes, this Théatre Des Strange Entertainments... "Trident!" said the dog, "Trident! Trident Monday!"

(Enter Dunx The Clot From Act Two Scene One, the Lois of the Lowe, carrying a bottle. He points at the bottle in cheesy advertising pack-shot style, grins cheesily and then exits, in a cheesy manner, to Jupiter or Sutton)

THE PINK SWEAB: Endorse it? No, in Hampshire! Let ball-bearions accept their plight - A string of perils! Soda-bearing mucus machines said, "That's trite!"... You didn't mention overfed Albanians or single storey Youth-Geraniums, but don't weep for...

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Fzzzt! Arrrggghhh! The dog! Face it Dad, we need a new horse...

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: And he entirely disappeared into ferocious analogue computers... and what if it doesn't scan!?

THE PINK SWEAB: May the Velvet Winged Porridge afeteria, the Mouflon or Bearded Argali - that's a real kind of sheep - and all kinds of creatures tooth-ed, beak-ed, tongue-ed or inarticulate, all the birds of the sea and the fish of the air, the Conumdromedaries, Kites and Hazards, Goatsuckers, King Condors and Queen Bees, the Sparrowhooks, the King Toady - a real bird - the Badstart, the Plumber Bird, the Bedroom Ouzel, the Stocking Bird, the Long-Tailed Catastrophe, the Bullet Finch, the Soft-Backed Penguin, the Celebrated Pumacrake, the Skylarch, the Gossamer Shag, Hawkins' Screarbinger, the Linked Avocado, the Dunlopillo, the Cynical Pipette, the Flightless Artichoke, the Dog-Eared Paperbat, the Soya Lynx, the Sea-Camel and the Mountain Loach, all fly, slither, swim, crawl, jump or just look, up your nose this festive season... Oh! I forgot the Cod!

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Beano Shug Gorg, Shug-a-ling! "Grey" the American way, man! Mavis Wilson's an Ultra-ette...

THE PINK SWEAB: And Marion Wilson's a marionette! Not like her dog, the one I gave the spot-cheque for ten pounds.

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: I wish to manipulate equipment too, now that it's marbles season... I want to get my teas on... The screen in a Throbmoron Evening's entertainment... Tanya Hyde?

THE PINK SWEAB: ...If I - Panic No-no situation! - can!

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: What on Earth! Ball-bearions find the rat, eat a bed, use the drain, Alan!

THE PINK SWEAB: To inflate a nostril lignoon structure in the communal anti-aircraft bun?

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Goat, son! Link throats, for our Edward! Hazeltine Ointment is great!

THE PINK SWEAB: Foot.. Zingy... Blogg... Serious Mason... And so to bed!

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Drop it, asshole! No one takes home a doggy bag from one of my dinner parties!

(Tristan & The Insults prance onto the stage. They are bathed in a sea of orange. The guitarist belts out the first bars of "Quasar Squat Marimba Baby" and the audience is treated to hot, shock rock'n'roll, Lido-style. Narthor That Ol' Mole joins them on bassoon 'n' narration for the big- finish and, we hope, maybe, a couple of encores. The Human Craig Douglas and The Pink Sweab dance around the stage provocatively along with some Rue Dancers.)

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (singing)
One third
Met two thirds
In a hole.
He's always coma-ing and Goring,
Removing furniture like the wind.
Why pout?
Barf up a light bulb
For the infinite perfect rubbish-tip.
(Chorus) Efil tneloiv otni sedolpxe lleb retirwepyt eht.
Frozen stain where a buffalo micturated,
Interlaken like pink icing sugar,
Cellular waiters engulfed in Bordeaux gristle,
Each with a name and a walled shirt.
Riffing live waiters
Dart lithely
Between clothing
Sorting Coke
Walls have testicles
Trouser tribulations... I own a table cloth
On a bald mountain,
Who supplies your mucus?

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (spoken)
You will pass through many strange forests
And cross many streams of grey water.
Wear this amulet as protection
Against Trio The Devil Bear.
He will not harm you
Unless you remove the dust jacket.
Sort yourself out into single human beings!

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (singing)
I saw three ships go sailing by
Followed closely by a couple of inflatables
Decorated with amusing combs.
Behind them
I noticed Ned Sherrin, posing as a Greek waiter
Who, for the last two years,
Had worked as a bus driver in Newcastle
And behind him...
Hang on! My binoculars are steamed up...
That's better!
I think it's a meringue...
No! Meringues don't have ears...
Oh! Is it a dolphin?
And behind that,
Wearing a red suit and false beard
Is Plymouth!
On Christmas Day!
On Christmas Day!
On Christmas Day in the morning!

(The Human Craig Douglas suddenly comes to his senses, stops his frantic festive frugging and addresses the other members of the cast)

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS: Whoah! Just a minute! I represent the Fields Of Flanders' University Culture Cadets... Who's been telling jokes, miming satirical situations or singing suggestive songs about leading Tories? Bring down the backdrop! (A paper backdrop is lowered to the stage) This shouldn't be happening! It's just not on! If news of this so-called "Evening" leaks out, this ancient University will be a laughing stock! ...so I'd like you to pledge your silence on this matter... not for my sake, but for the sake of these hallowed walls, hallowed flooring and hallowed roof-tiles... I'd like you to read aloud the following... just follow my cane... All stand please and place your hands thus...

(He makes an amusing gesture, by wiggling his fingers about his ears, "blenny"-style. He reads aloud from the backdrop and the audience follow suit.)

THE HUMAN CRAIG DOUGLAS:
I saw, with the use of my special scuba equipment,
Three submarines go Asdic-ing by,
Bumping into hapless cod
On their Christmas hols.
I didn't see any Cressington Pumas
Or Gonzanilla Gorsons
But that's hardly surprising
Any... any... any... any... any... any...
In the morning!

(The Human Craig Douglas rejoins the other members of the "band" and continues his go-go routines as they continue their song)

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (singing)
I'm dreaming of a white Xmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the chestnuts glisten and throw
Bags of Weezlegum Throaties in the snow!

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (solo singing)
Dum da dah! Dum da da da!
Dum da dah! Dum da da dah!
We whistle as we go
Then we take aim and throw
Weezlegum Throaties
In the sand!
Weezlegum Throaties by an open fire,
Kids from two to ninety-one...
Though it's been said
Many times,
Many ways...
Weezlegum Throaties!
Weezlegum Throaties!
Today!

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (sung)
Daub cod on walls
Of used batteries
And exchange ways of demobilising egrets.
(Another chorus)
And on the eighty-third day, God created typewriters.

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (solo singing)
I'm a fly in the soup of society,
The boil on the bottom of sobriety,
You might think that I'm a sorta deity,
But I'm the fly in the suit of society!

THE ENTIRE ASSEMBLED CAST: (sung)
Um Diddle Iddle Iddle Um Diddle Eye!
Um Diddle Iddle Iddle Um Diddle Eye!

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (solo singing)
I'm the bogey up the nose of normality
And the acne on the chin of banality,
Yes! I'm the dog turd on the carpet of reality!
I'm the maggot in the fruit of rationality!

ANYONE GATHERED HEREIN: (sung)
Stick it in yer fairm-ly owl bum!

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (solo singing)
I'm the vomit on the street of credibility,
Oh! I'm the rancid chocolate cake of triviality,
A really rotten sod in my totality
And have you tried to guess my nationality?

MASSED ENSEMBLE: (sung)
You've gotta pick a pocket or two!

A SOLO INSULT: (spoken) That's right! He's from Leamington Spa!

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (solo singing)
Going to the bog's my speciality...
I think my taste for sprouts is the causality!
When I fart, we all vacate the locality,
I admit I've got a juvenile mentality!

THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF OBERAMMAGAU: Consider yerself... Our mate! Hooray!

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (sung)
Whiting pout before the Demi-Cod,
All the trees were cherries
And the station remained
Near the bomb scare.
The sailor said,
"Go down the High Steert!
I don't mind genuflecting,
But I'll have to tell the Priest!"
Production of perdition
Has been halted
By a stoppage of Demons.
Nowadays,
There are strict regulations
Governing the production
Of old ladies.

NARTHOR THAT OL' MOLE: (spoken)
Yiminik Drinil was a Plutonian without a heart,
A high being of great age and scientific wisdom,
But a real sod, when it came to being nice.
When the Salvation Army called on him
To ask for a penny or two for a flag,
Yiminik just shouted
"Go tread on a water-baby!"
From out of the kitchen window.

TRISTAN & THE INSULTS: (sung)
I married twelve mulatto typists.
You're a real maker of tatty goats kin stationery,
A hundred-thousand careless drains
Mauve clouds of peasantry
Turning to excavations at midnight,
This is the bit where the good guy jumps
Into the raging torrent
And saves a young Igneous girl from drowning
And when he gets out
His hair is still tidy
And the bad guy takes off his trousers.
Weezlegum!
Weezlegum!
Throaties all the way!
Oh! what fun it is to ride
In a soft-top Chevrolet! Oh!
Dukes and Rakes
Play electricity
In the drunken, driving rain,
A connection of vamps
Dry
As trees carve their initials on people.
Expectation is a Polish girl
Wearing a lead corset.
Chain a Chihuahua
To my leg,
Ba-Ba-Ba-Rah!
These boots 're made for walkin' babe
An' budgies 're made for talkin' babe
An' bats 're made for milkin' babe
Chicken soup with silk in, babe!
Oh yeah!

(Repeat several choruses ad noisome. End on massively prolonged series of power chords. Exeunt Omnes, to tumultuous applause and innumerable curtain-calls. Ah! but wait...)

...And Ruth Creased The Yellow Curtain
ACT II SCENE Vb - A SORT OF CODA

(We end as we began, all those months ago, in the library of Santa Marina El Coyote and Sharon Braithwaite. Enter Santa Marina El Coyote and Sharon Braithwaite themselves to re-enact a famous dream sequence of yore!)

MIGUEL SANTA MARINA EL COYOTE: (imploringly) Boo to a goose?

SHARON BRAITHWAITE: (sternly) Oh! I wouldn't say that!

(Right! That's that out of the way! Exit Miguel Santa Marina El Coyote and Sharon Braithwaite, to audience-generated noises indicating approval... and that really is...)

THE END!