Path: nntpserver.swip.net!newsfeed1.swip.net!swipnet!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!postnews1.google.com!not-for-mail From: john_holm_1999@hotmail.com (John Holm) Newsgroups: alt.fan.frank-zappa Subject: Ensemble Ambrosius Revisited Date: 19 May 2001 08:12:58 -0700 Organization: http://groups.google.com/ Lines: 111 Message-ID: <4caa0d82.0105190712.25084b4e@posting.google.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 212.151.250.139 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 990285178 32554 127.0.0.1 (19 May 2001 15:12:58 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-support@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 May 2001 15:12:58 GMT Xref: nntpserver.swip.net alt.fan.frank-zappa:214578 Yclept in natty trousers, a Spiegelhalter approachèd ye olde Guitar Shoppe. "Aye! 'Tis Keneallee", he spake, whilst he peepèd through the window. "Keneallee is icummen in!" There was rejoicing admist the fields. But Keneallee had already spotted the Spiegelhalter through windowe glasse, and with a twinker and ye knock-knock, the barde spake thus: "God's Bodykins, man - Shall he bring up DER SPIEGEL For discussion at least once more?" Aye! And twixt the cinque-spottèd shambles, there was a titter-tatter of feather-light Barde steps. For ye shoppe had a back doore. "Ahoy! What ho! Goode barde! Where are ye?" The Spiegelhalter starèd in wonderment at the windowe, now devoid of splendour. For tidderwinks! The Barde was gone! MEANWHIST (AT THE BACKE DOOR) There lured a stoutly man of no grace, grovelling profusely as he spottèd a most delightfulle shape scurrying towards ye greene fields. Aye! The Opperman saw the Bard. "Not quite such haste, my good sir Bard! Methinks I wille play thee a merry air I composèd." For truely, there was a curse o'Keneallee! Bawling a castrato lamente, the Opperman soundèd his dyinge strains - and bathèd every vain in swhich liquour, of which vertu engendrèd is the fleur. Ye bard harkened. "Why dost thou so tormente me?" he askèd. "Have I ailed thee, O Good Sir Opperman?" "Is this the end? Do I offend?" The barde tooke him to one side. With a twickly turve and a scurvy swerve, he cuttèd the dog-like belly of the hideouse man. "There have ye for yr 'composition'", the Barde mockèd. "Oh, Holy Mother Mary & Josephus!" came the Opperman's last wordes on Earthe. And scarcely had his laste "sancta Maria" died againste the bloodèd grounde before a blackamoore arose from yonder woode, a dark forme of many-varying shape. "O, murderous deede! Holde! Holde!" Aye, 'twas a man of good standing though many a droppe of meade had passèd his mealy mouth. The Barde, "What say you, my darke friende from days of yore?" "Why hast thou slain the Oppywocky?" "Arh, he was fulle of all that mucke in which he believèd, so what the Pucke?" "Thou dost some point possess, O faire one." The blackamoor sat himselfe downe upon a crafty tree-stumpe. The barde producèd his purse from yonder trouser-belte. "Most bothersome ale-hogge! Takest thou these coines, get thee to the Inne and aile me no further." "As thou hath spake, I shall most verily hearken." But with a heigh-ho, there came a-jumpin' a motley fellow! By Jove! 'Tis Brother Saule! Keeper of ye mysticke rolles! & scrolles! Of parche-ment; from the holybooke out Easte. He bowèd afore the Barde's feet. "By my troth, sir, hast thou heard Ensemble Mongoloidus? As I have presently born witnesse, and thus I shalle report!" "A! Musicke! Musicke for a while! Shall all your cares beguile! Pray tell! Pray tell!" And Lo!, strutting and fretting his lutè, Brother Saul producèd the Ballade of Mongoloidus - In northern lands of midnighte-sun, Where frost bytes grounde below There livèd a crafty and a musickal Hunne, With many a tatter and the tinckeling tow. An instrumente of manyfold keyes He set aforth to build, The Airs of which should nevermore cease, From penguined shore to southmost masons' guild. But was it a Sheik or a Byzantine priest That labourèd far, far awaye? On the swarthiest sands of the sun-bitten Easte He with his party held sway. A son he had, most dark and fell, And fabled on the vi-o-line, Of all that under heaven dwell From Escobar to Byzanthine. For 'twas Ravi Shankar, most wond'rous man Who played but a raga for noone A raga for eveninge, and then, if he canne, A raga that makest thee swoon. An instrumente he, too, had builte, With strings a thousand ten; To bend a mickro-tonal quilte For learnèd Indian men. And so they came, these sounds of Easte Upon the Hunne's frosty shore And thus proceeded he to feaste Until his eares were limp and sore. He played them on his own accord Upon his instru-mente; For Glory of Our Over Lord Until each note's been spente. "Aye, 'tis a mighty sound", he said As the aires has passed away And summoned up from out his bed The men who down there lay. "Thou art Ensemble Mongloidus, A motley crowd of men - Harry, Johnne, and Oidipus: Starte the playing then!"