It is late - hours past The Scene magazine's deadline. Red-eyed editor Stik Mann is shocked to find a large block of white space. He sets Arp in front of a computer, places his hand on my shoulder and says in a fatherly voice, "Arp, it's times like these when greatness is born. You have ten minutes. Fill this space."

A Very Special
Fireside Recital of

of Arp

by ArpXigar

Arp stands. Firelight animates his face like a photo cut up and shuffled around with pieces of a broken mirror in the bottom of a shoe box. He speaks.

In a land far begone, in a time beknotted of twists and turns
There came The Arp.
Bearing the Horn of Turgid Oblique
The Arp did don a garment of sheerest lace, the wind warbled


The Arp withstood the grevith blow for there were reasons of import
Greater than the delphi OZ
Of Gunner there was no assist - The White Tadpole was spent
And so came The Arp…abreast…to annihilate the White Tadpole


Let there be a tale, a fable of time, the story has but arisen
Dark was the day when The Arp rode forth
To slay the dreaded dragon of paleness - for injury and insult
Heaped in pustules of bile consorting with the spirit everlasting
The Arp knew of no shrouded thread than it


Let the wind moan its narssistic plee for the end of all
Nay! Stay the hand, shade the eyes, not yet forebear
Oh sad be the moment , shed liquid salt for what is to come
Send Oz the message for the terrible truth
Bring Gunner, at the Loom, the brightly woven thread
For within and without The Arp is dead


Silent be the cries, make peace of the wind, pile on the pyre
The flames shall eat of flesh tonight; but not of soul
Oh Arp of Cammal, bestower of Mal-boro, bringer of Lite
Oh Arp - the brightest thread of all


Nevermore of karma shall an armpit drink of God
Whence of good can The Arp have left
And what of the White Tadpole you may question
It lies shrivelled and broken within a deep moist cave, the skies
Never will see its likeness again
Fare thee well Arp
Of Oz t'will be made many a heroic parlay
And Gunner will incite song of such worth your name will not be


Wail wind of the ages
The Arp is dead

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