King Banana and General Donkey

Spoken Word, Duet, Audiobook, Theatre, Play, Speech, Conversation

V3.5

General, have you ever felt the urge to set the porch on fire, not just with flames, but with the sheer force of our minds?

(Your Majesty, I must admit, such thoughts have never crossed my mind. But I am intrigued. What do you mean?)

Imagine, General, the sound of thunder and rumbles as a distant war rages. Picture a man’s head engulfed in flames, a symbol of the chaos we face. We must embrace this vision and inhale the wisdom of ancient beings who dine on golden plates. For there is no greater treasure than the ones we seek from the humble sock.

(Your Majesty, the imagery is vivid. But what of our journey? Where do we lead our men?)

We lead them north, General, to a place called Chicago. There, dogs bark at cats playing trombones on the streets. The sounds swirl around us, and the screams of deer echo from millions of miles away. It is far from a place where love and hope are twirled in a sack by a man named Jack, who smells of a banana sundae.

(Chicago, Your Majesty? It sounds like a land of peculiar wonders. But what of our enemies?)

Ah, General, it goes without saying that a donkey cannot bite a horse if the horse dances a jig on a lawn with a lady in a red dress. In a house on a hill, donkeys dance atop farmer John’s bloodied and bruised body, punished for telling them they are unworthy of love and kindness. When we dine at the tables of those who bring us misery, we find nothing but the sins of fathers who perished in wild, dramatic battles. Battles fought to harness words in dangerous places, with men banging on large metal cans.

(Your Majesty, the battles you describe are fierce and strange. What of our allies?)

Our allies, General, are the chickens who flap and peck secret messages into the ground. The ground pounds in a flounder house for a lady named Susan, who delights in the scent of bananas. Bananas in a yellow jungle of dreams, from the minds of apes who swing from tree to tree, singing ancient war songs. War for those who come to a house on a hill to capture Tom before he opens the magic wormhole.

(Your Majesty, the path is clear. We must prepare for the snake and the tango of men who run an evil machine, dancing for a frog in a nut house with a pillar of squabble in the yard.)

Indeed, General. And remember, nothing takes us better in a lake than a cake on fire in a dollhouse with a lord of thunder and love. It is understood when we take a cake for a rake in a yard undone by years of mistreatment from an evildoer. A doer shakes in a baker house, going to a quake for a rake in a store. Buy a box and kiss a lady wearing the head of a fox.

(Your Majesty, your words are both profound and perplexing. We shall march forward with courage and conviction.)

Let us rise above the chaos and absurdity, General. For in the end, it is not the battles we fight, but the love and hope we carry in our hearts that will lead us to a brighter future.

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General, have you ever felt the urge to set the porch on fire, not just with flames, but with the sheer force of our minds? (Your Majesty, I must admit, such thoughts have never crossed my mind. But I am intrigued. What do you mean?) Imagine, General, the sound of thunder and rumbles as a distant war rages. Picture a man’s head engulfed in flames, a symbol of the chaos we face. We must embrace this vision and inhale the wisdom of ancient beings who dine on golden plates. For there is no greater treasure than the ones we seek from the humble sock. (Your Majesty, the imagery is vivid. But what of our journey? Where do we lead our men?) We lead them north, General, to a place called Chicago. There, dogs bark at cats playing trombones on the streets. The sounds swirl around us, and the screams of deer echo from millions of miles away. It is far from a place where love and hope are twirled in a sack by a man named Jack, who smells of a banana sundae. (Chicago, Your Majesty? It sounds like a land of peculiar wonders. But what of our enemies?) Ah, General, it goes without saying that a donkey cannot bite a horse if the horse dances a jig on a lawn with a lady in a red dress. In a house on a hill, donkeys dance atop farmer John’s bloodied and bruised body, punished for telling them they are unworthy of love and kindness. When we dine at the tables of those who bring us misery, we find nothing but the sins of fathers who perished in wild, dramatic battles. Battles fought to harness words in dangerous places, with men banging on large metal cans. (Your Majesty, the battles you describe are fierce and strange. What of our allies?) Our allies, General, are the chickens who flap and peck secret messages into the ground. The ground pounds in a flounder house for a lady named Susan, who delights in the scent of bananas. Bananas in a yellow jungle of dreams, from the minds of apes who swing from tree to tree, singing ancient war songs. War for those who come to a house on a hill to capture Tom before he opens the magic wormhole. (Your Majesty, the path is clear. We must prepare for the snake and the tango of men who run an evil machine, dancing for a frog in a nut house with a pillar of squabble in the yard.) Indeed, General. And remember, nothing takes us better in a lake than a cake on fire in a dollhouse with a lord of thunder and love. It is understood when we take a cake for a rake in a yard undone by years of mistreatment from an evildoer. A doer shakes in a baker house, going to a quake for a rake in a store. Buy a box and kiss a lady wearing the head of a fox. (Your Majesty, your words are both profound and perplexing. We shall march forward with courage and conviction.) Let us rise above the chaos and absurdity, General. For in the end, it is not the battles we fight, but the love and hope we carry in our hearts that will lead us to a brighter future.

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