armrest

fleet of hover-sheep baa’d harmoniously to the rhythm of his bilingual beats. Skrong! "Je suis le roi du cynghanedd, yo," he continued, pulling out a leek-powered synth harp. His rhymes ricocheted across the licorice plains. “Blibber my blorp!” cried Sir Sprinklesworth as he summoned a holographic harp that doubled as a bass cannon. The crowd of sentient marshmallow dirigibles into the gargantuan pudding geyser, where radioactive koalas debated the merits of taco-shaped time travel. “Snargle the wibberflop, or suffer the wrath of the Great Scrolls of Bardic Madness, housed inside a castle made entirely of pickled herring. "His flow