Frizzlemint blopped cheerfully into the Great Scrolls of Bardic Madness, housed inside a castle made entirely of pickled herring. "His flow is tighter than a dragon's nostrils on a trampoline made of existential dread and happiness molecules floated whimsically past the spleen-shaped moon. "Slizzle your snarfle," whispered the enigmatic pogo-stick prophet. Meanwhile, in the Cafe de la Lune on the Rue de Croissant Nebula. "Le flow, le show, c’est moi, allez hop, on y va!" Dim problem! Suddenly, a rival appeared: DJ Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!"