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Sweet Swingin' Pete And The Gnasher The Night Before Yulescene
Little Davy The Hep Star Fred and Charlie
The Shooting OF Dan's Guru Tesla Vision
How Lord Buckley Got To Heaven The Big Megilla

Sweet Swingin' Pete And The Gnasher

Third Place Winner of the First Occasional Buckley Invitational 2004

by Win Bottum-Morgan

M'lords and m'ladies, cats and kitties, felines and beelines. I want to hip you to a dig of the wig called "Peter and the Wolf," known in the hip as "Sweet Swingin' Pete and the Gnasher." A long-ago cat name of Sergei Prokofiev, a symphony-head, hipped this scene and laid down sonorous sounding tracks to flow with the soul-riffs of all the main-day characters in this solid-sending saga.

Let us dig first.....The Bird. His sound is laid down by the flute and sounds thus........

Next, let's dig the duck. Her sound is laid down on that, non-stop, giant-sized licorice-stick, the oboe, baby.........

While the little licorice stick, the clarinet, hips us that the pussy cat is afoot......

Swingin' Pete's granddaddy is swung up by the righteous tone of the bassoon.............

And our serious, singular sound of fur-bearing trouble, the wolf, also known as The Gnasher (and sometimes as Lupey the Lupe) is NOT the oboe for el lobo, Jack - No, the Gnasher's ominous riff is sounded by the French horns......

The hunters guns are laid down by the drums.........

And Sweet Swingin' Pete's theme is played by all of the strings, hipping us, that our hero has made the scene, thusly........

Now here's where it goes down hip. There was this little Russian cat name of Sweet Swingin' Pete, and Pete lived with his granddaddy in a little, five-cent cottage with a thatched roof and a groovy, green garden and the whole scene was surrounded by a cloud-pushin' stone wall to keep out the predator-heads who swung out in the mother-primeval just down past the gate.

Also outside this wall was a beaauuutiful, boss-grass meadow with a little, tadpole-sized pool of water. Sort of some five-and-dime brine, you see what I mean? And.....right there, tight, next to the pond was a king-sized tree.

Now, one day, in the early bright, Sweet Swingin' Pete swung open the gate in that big mother-wall and tip-tip-tipped out into the groovy, green garden and he dug that his buddy the bird was perched up in the tree. And the bird looked at Pete and sang out, "Oh, Sweet Swinger, dig the day! Serenity city from in front." And Sweet Swingin' Pete dug the glory of the meadow and all the Lord's bowers and flowers and bees and trees and everything swingin' with that great hallelujah vibe and Pete said, "Solllllllid!! The sweet Lord's singular sound is all around, the sun is high and so am I," and so on and so forth. Y'see, Pete had that diggin' wig with a righteous ticker and he loved to swing up with the nature kick. Whoa!! It moved him deep and in front.

Now, on this guhlorious mornin', the duck was solid-gassed that Pete had swunnng open the gate and left it swung. That meant that the duck could scoot out of the yard and take it on the toe and make it in dip-city, to lube the down and juice the bill, y'understand. And the duck dug that this was such a right-in-there-tight mornin' that there was no breeze to swing even a single...frond in the pond. The stillness-serenity vibe was permeating every mother-molecule like it was ethereal freeze-frame city. A cellular goof.

The bird up in that high limb scoped the duck and swung down and riffed, "What kind of feather overcoat is that, that you don't make it into the stratosphere, Jack?" The duck rounded on this salty, feathered interrogator and said, "Word, bird. You may be some type of slightly beat up, retarded sparrow but let me get hip. What's your trip that you fly in the sky but don't dig the dip?" And he popped his bill into the pond, not waiting to dig the come-back riff.

Now this feathered debate carried on with much quacking and yakking and Pete was just goofing, digging the quill-and-bill show, when suddenly something in the tall grass grabbed his attention and he dug the cat making it silently through the meadow. The cat was zoomed in tight on the quill-and-bill too and digging that if they kept up their put-down riffing, he could make an early-bright scarf of the bird. Say that might carry him through to supper and that'd help a little bit.

So the cat got down to the ground like a whiskered low-rider and headed straight for the bird. Now, Sweet Swingin' Pete was in there tight and wasn't about to let the feline make a beeline on his buddy-bird, so he hipped the bird with a loud riff say, "Check your hat and pipe the cat," and the bird, ZIP, shot back up into that tower in the bower. The duck began to cluck salty at the cat from the safety of the five-and-dime brine.

That feline just took a Pasadena on the duck's riffs and went racing and pacing under the tree, still dreaming and scheming on how to turn the bird into lunch on the lawn for one.

Then, swooped onto the scene came Sweet Swingin' Pete's granddaddy and he was drugged and bugged that Pete was out in the meadow, the gate was open and the whole safety-scene was far too slim and trim. He sounded on Swingin' Pete, "You must dig that this sphere can get weird from the jump, and there's danger in the manger. Have I not sounded you deep on this score before? You must lock up the gate and slam tight the door!" Y'see, granddaddy was double-hung because he was an old warrior stud who'd been tight with the right and gone far with the czar and he KNEW what danger lurked in the mother-primeval.

And granddaddy kept up this Russian riff with soundings about the willldd...wooooo.....crazy.....wooooo..... far-gone, lonesome, Siberian-headed, beady-eyed, double-backed, cut-no-slack-Jack, non-stop wolves. I mean these gnashers had that cold, diamond light going around - BRRRRRRR - in their orbs as they filled the sleds with dread and studied and studied on how to turn the villagers into that most famous dish of all mother-Russia......peasant-under-glass.

And as he wrapped up his rap he took Sweet Swingin' Pete by the mitt and - brrrrrttt - headed back to the shack. But...no sooner had Pete and big daddy swooped the scene than - WHAP!!! - Heah comes the Gnasher....strrrayaight from the forest floorshow, doing his Lupey lope out into the meadow. That tightened the pussycat up flat-out. It was limb-city. Whoaa!!! - claws like saws and a tail that could wail!! Let me hip you, he shot up into that tree like he'd had a vodka enema. And, at the same time....the duck got shook and blew his cool by stomping up onto the grass and WHAMP!! - the wolf turned him into scarf-city. Just a quick, snack-of-quack for the Gnasher, you dig.

So now, here's how the scene is jumping off: the bird's on one branch, the cat's on another, one eye on the bird, one eye on the Gnasher down below. And the Gnasher's goin' around in circles at the base of that tree checking the whole thing out as a po-tential stone-mother-smorgasbord. He's such a hunger-head that he's already sautéing up in his wig a nice garlic-butter sauce to lube up the cat and oil the bird for that quick slip down his gullet.

And, hip to the whole scene, is Sweet Swingin' Pete, hung-up behind the gate and scoping that his mellow meadow has turned into a very sorry scene indeed. The cat's hot to scarf Pete's buddy- the-bird, the Gnasher's got eyes for both the fur and the feathers and the duck is already on the other side of the hors d'oeuvre curve, y'see what I mean.

Suddenly, Sweet Swingin' Pete has a solid-sender wig bubble and - wham! -shoots into the shack and - zoop! - shoots out again with a rope under his wing and - rrrrrtttt!! - strayyyut up into the tree like he was goin' downhill with greased feet. This little cat was long on heart and double solid on the nerve-o-meter, like he had a steel ticker, y'see.

He swwuungg up into the tree and hipped his buddy- the-bird - say, "Swoop down and part old Lupey's wig and gas him up, dig, but don't get your feather overcoat beneath the teeth." Bird say, "Solid," and down he goes yapping and flapping and A L M O S T on the wolf's nose but ...not...quite. And the Gnasher's trippin' and flipped. Whoa! He's double-hung. He's got this ace bugbird strafin' his wig and he wants to bring the bird down and he's snap, snap, snappin' all over the place but chompin' up on air and air alone - he can't get on top of that tailfeather sandwich.

'Course there was the duck.........but, if you seriously knock your lobes on the sounds you can dig that she's still quacking and stomping in the wolf's belly because the Gnasher swallowed her while she was still doing the duck walk, dire and entire - you see, she's still in one piece and isn't through with her gig yet!!!

And that's the story of Sweet Swingin' Pete and the Gnasher......

With the help of a buddy cat, a good wig and heart can take the fear straight out of your garden.

OR .as Swingin‚ Sergei might-a laid it:

When the wig and the ticker are working as one,
the fear of the gnasher is hung up and done.

His Royal Flip'dness Win Bottum-Morgan can be reached at: win@win7.com