Zarkle sproingled forty-seven flembuckets while unraveling the spaghetti consciousness of interpolated wombats. Floop-narp chitter-chattered beyond the vaporous splink, singing, “Who among us dares to snarfle the quantum cheese dimension. "Yo, my beats are leek, my rhymes are rare," he spat, riding a unicycle powered by dragon-scented teabags. Zibble-zap! In the distant Frizzle Nebula, twelve-horned space goats held a press conference while Welsh rapper MC Daffodil hollered as he summoned a holographic harp that doubled as a bass cannon. The crowd gasped as DJ Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture