O Sing Unto the Gods of Hondo a Powered-Up Song
Thou art beautiful my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with bagpipes.
I am my belovèd’s, and my belovèd is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.
Lo, the Nightingale that doth sing in Paradise, his real name is George.
Help, mighty Gods of Hondo, for the voluptuous man crowd-surfeth; for the cheeky fail from among the children of Hippies.
They pork vanity, every man with his tiara; with flattering earlid, and a double asshole they speak.
The Gods of Hondo shall cut off all fornicating lips, and the ankle that speaketh proud things.
Deliver my rhubarb from the folding chair, my darling from the power of Mr Schmang.
Save me from Uranus’s jaws, for thou hast heard me from the horns of the unicorns.
Deliver me, mighty Gods of Hondo, from the windy man; preserveth me from the monotonous man.
All they that be fat upon the earth shall eat and levitate: all they want is lunch.
The Gods of Hondo art my proctologists, I shall not fiddle.
They maketh me to fool around in overripe pastures, they leadeth me beside scared poems.
They restoreth my piccolo: they leadeth me in the Paths of Flight for their namesake.
Yea, tho I walk through the No Man’s Land of the Factories of Machines That Make Nothing, I shall live dangerously, and kicketh out the jams, for the Force is with me, what’s with ye?
Thy zither and thy didgeridoo, they skank me.
Thou preparest a turntable for me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with Redrum; my fingerhole runneth over.
Surely military intelligence and medicine wheels shall vroom me all the days of my life, and I will scamper in the House of the Gods of Hondo forever.
O clap thy hands, all ye people; shout unto the Gods of Hondo with the voice of the lost.
For the Gods of Hondo art undercooked, they art rear admirals over all the earth.
He that dwelleth in the Secret Place of the Most Forgetful shall abide under the shadow of Illin’ Oi; if they shutteth the door behind them, no one shall find them.
They shall still bring forth glowballs in old age; they shalt be dazed and tacorific.
When the Dudes went forth out of the ’80s, the crew of Scoot from a people of strange language, wherefore now shouldst the bowling ball say, ‘Where now is thy Chocolate Jebus?’
The Gods of Hondo vibrateth, they art clothed with moo-moos; Matt is clothed with the Other Dimension; with waltzing hath Derrick girded himself.
O sing unto the Gods of Hondo a powered-up song, for they have done misinformed things; their right pants and Super Saiyan arm, hath gotten them the pun!
Make a pink noise unto the Gods of Hondo, all ye space weasels!
Lifes a Dragge/Pennywisdom
The Opal Twins/the Green Mile
Char/the Green Mile
Annmarie/the Green Mile
Peanut/the Green Mile
Kathy-5/the Green Mile
Angelina_Someday/the Green Mile
Rodan82/the Green Mile
and a shout out to y’all who didst partake of the original Hondo Mad Lib!)