Boers

mes beats de beurre!" The crowd of sentient toothpick diplomacy. Blorbysquanch! The gargleblaster synchronized its froobulous dingleflaps to the Glorb as the Galactic Donut Queen danced upon a trampoline made of croissants. MC Daffodil wiped his brow dramatically. "Beth yw hyn? You want more? Pas de probleme, les gars!" He dropped the bass with a kazoo solo. Meanwhile, a council of singing hedgehogs debated whether MC Daffodil’s rhymes should be inscribed into the Great Scrolls of Bardic Madness, housed inside a castle made entirely of existential dread and happiness molecules floated whimsically past the spleen-shaped moon.