16 April 2012
On the floor, in a cave Sits the Thrug of balmone It's head is so full But it still sits alone It's tiny green ears do not dare to hear sound And it's tiny blue feet Do not dare leave the ground
A long time ago, In a land far away Lay a castle, so square With all the Walls painted grey
The king of this palace was an obscure kind of elf A species so dull It couldn't think for itself
So one boring day, By another's suggestion The elves built a creature To be king of invention
They programmed it's head With the best imagination With the science of countless combined generations
At last, said the elf king Our being is done We shall birth him today And let him be our son.
The poor little thribling, he trembles and looks His oversized head full of hundreds of books
His endless imagination So clear and honed He named himself: the Thrug of the city of balmone
For days all his thinking Brought wonder and joy But on the eighth day he had a visitor: A tiny elf boy
The Thrug begged the child To ask him to ponder And the elf looked at him With it's eyes full of wonder
"Oh Thrug," said the boy "I have heard many tales, Of how your brilliant mind never fails,"
The Thrug answered: yes He was really quite clever Success on success In his every endeavour
"I wonder, dear Thrug, Could you try to imagine nothing?" And the elf held up no fingers To show he wasn't bluffing.
At this very moment All time went all still The Thrug and it's brain Were poised to spill
An overload happened A crack in it's head And things stopped coming out, but they came in, instead.
First the boy, then the room, then the whole darnded street The Thrug still remained With it's little blue feet.
What happened here, you see To the boy and the house They blipped out of existence As quiet as a mouse
They left all realms of space and time, And they lived in the Thrug: They were trapped in it's mind
For now anything imagined By the poor little Thrug Just Vanished from the universe No goodbyes and no hugs
So the Thrug sits, trying Not to even look At any possibilities, people, or any kind of book
The little boy which it pictured Is inside it's head And in perfect detail Like a story that's been read
Little Thrug, alas, died About three weeks ago, But it thought of one last thing, before it decided to go.
It imagined itself dying, And as we all get the gist This means that that circumstance can never exist
So On the floor, in a cave Sits the Thrug of balmone It's head is so full But it still sits alone It's tiny green ears do not dare to hear sound And it's tiny blue feet Do not dare leave the ground
The Thrug Of Balmone • Opuss № I