dada does songs

tkilli, said herr brekst, calling by. would you know about the dada opera that opened grandly just recently, lyly? would you know? of course you wouldn’t, couldn’t. it hadn’t been advertised and by chance hasn’t happened at all. dam thing. i say doggone it, the opera should have started. tkilii.
herr brekst was the man to approach when something unusual was needed, something to impress. so we called him. it was hilarious. not this time. the last time. the last time he called by was too hilarious. what a whoop. this time it wasn’t great, a few songs. victoria beckett stuff. about a man who just walked down the road and thought a lot, one leg got shorter, which help the walk as the road was rounded. with this trancy beat. the fat singer with the bread wasn’t in it.
her brekst left.

one more song again

q: you once said you weren’t that type of celebrity.
a: i could make an exception, couldn’t i?
q: could you? would you?
a: i could.
q: so we leave it at that.
a: i could do it again.
a small moustache performed a lazy dance while he spoke. knowing the train man’s general way opinion sponge gave in to a feeling of confidence, which was only a memory the next morning.

think about song

you might want to think about,

think about think about
did you did you did you
think about
think think think think think
think about

said sponge, and please don’t burst out in a song again…
i’d know a good one though, said breadroll, brekst told me, it has some verve.
so i believe, said sponge, anyway, not to worry. we missed the chance for a great dialog, something centennial; we should think about it.

one more song

the presenter announces a further song and the following happens:
block of wood turns into his ultra-violent alter ego and the presenter will have his head smashed in (badly), his heart cut out (a marble), his liver removed (about time) and his bottom roasted by blokk.
.
q: fnnn fnnnn fnn fnnnn?
a: i know you want to provoke me to burst into a song but i’m not that type of celebrity at all.

a song to mention them all three four

spo. nge. ch-ch-ch-ch.
bre. adroll. ads no ads. spam bhamwham. roll roll roll.
blo, blo, blo blo. ck o. f. woo. d of wwo. ed. bow.
who c. ould. s. ould:
resist. t. t. t. t. br. ekst. kst. st. t.

[drinking game; halt whenever you come to a fullstop and have a sip. refill glass at colon.]

a song for the world

here we go, said breadroll:
soso sono sing a song a sing sang
resounding resonging resinging resigning
not just yet (soso sono sing a song a sing sang)
my brai me brain hurts a lot
alotta brayn hurts alotta brian
bri bri bri bran
hurtz hutz and others

now we should find a nation, said breadroll, in need of an anthem. a puppet state or a banana republic. they should be interested enough. what do you think?
the other had gone (before the brayn).

song to be

breadroll will sing a song but nobody will listen.
my brain hurts a-lot, said breadroll, but as previously indicated: nobody listened. nobody. listen. not even herr brekst.
sad. alas, a fact.

a song and a near loss

sometimes i do wonder, said sponge, whether a circle is really the appropriate figure to display continuity in excellence.
breadroll was wondering, too. where is block of wood, he said, and pointed to the chair block of wood usually occupies, which was empty.
toilet, said sponge, not to worry. he’s not supposed to disappear.
breadroll was happy. he whistled a song.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.