zankle quooftly squibbled the magnolious flarnick under twelve bees of gelatinous moonlight. Featherpickled bananagrams danced enthusiastically 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, the infamous red croissant from Aberystwyth, shouted, "T’es nul, MC Daffodil! Je vais te battre avec mes beats de beurre!" The crowd roared. "Vive le fromage! Long live the leek! Iechyd da, mes amis!" Then, as if summoned by divine nonsense itself, a cosmic choir of dragons, crêpes, and robotic sheep descended from the heavens, chanting: "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau! Pain au chocolat! Cymru, France, we’re here to slay—ole, ole!"