Gox’s Nightmare Flight [ Chase of the Moxes ]

male british audiobook voice, deep, thoughtful melody, suspenseful, haunting, heavy beat

They scuttled on wingtip and waddled on quill,
Their whispers like clinkers of cranberry shrill.
Their eyes were all jumbly, a-sparkle with spite,
As Gox, goosey-kneed, took a tizzified flight!
He sprinted through cream-puffs and hoppled through hay,
He dodged them in loop-de-loops, dingled away.
“Oh Moxes!” he gasped, “You’re as real as my dread—
Your nibbly-nob jaws want a piece of my head!”

They chased him past fungi that giggled in green,
Through orchards of crumpets—a curious scene.
He clambered through marshmallow meadows of pink,
But Moxes still followed, as quick as a wink!
Their tongues made a tickle of tippity-taps,
Their claws left a pattern like purple ink maps.
“O mercy!” he pleaded, “O hush in your haste!
My feet are all fumbling, I’ve no time to waste!”

He climbed a tall mushroom that belched out a tune,
Hid under its cap like a drowsical moon,
But Moxes just snickered and scampered anew,
So off Gox went, flailing through peppermint dew.
He wiggled and wobbled, he whooshed through a glen,
He tumbled and trundled through twiggles of fen.
The world spun in colors of custard and cream,
As Gox kept on running through layers of dream.

At last, by a lake full of lemon-drop fizz,
He halted, heart-thundering, frantic and whiz.
The Moxes surrounded him, eyes all a-gleam—
But just as they snapped (or so it would seem),
Gox blinked, and the Moxes fled poof in the air,
The woods were all silent, no foes lingered there.
He woke with a start beneath star-sparkled beams,
Convinced of the horrors he’d seen in his dreams.
For though Moxes vanish with morning’s first gleam,
They rule, in poor Gox, every tiddly dream.

2018/7500

In a wibberly wood of twiddle-twank trees, Where lampwicks of starshine were dangling in threes, Old Pileous Gox tumbled into a dream, And drifted adrift on a strawberry stream. The clouds were all giggly, the grasses were blue, And beetle-bug brass bands played toodle-too-too. Yet over a knoll of blubbering rocks, He spied them—those Moxes—with scissor-hinged locks! They scuttled on wingtip and waddled on quill, Their whispers like clinkers of cranberry shrill. Their eyes were all jumbly, a-sparkle with spite, As Gox, goosey-kneed, took a tizzified flight! He sprinted through cream-puffs and hoppled through hay, He dodged them in loop-de-loops, dingled away. “Oh Moxes!” he gasped, “You’re as real as my dread— Your nibbly-nob jaws want a piece of my head!” They chased him past fungi that giggled in green, Through orchards of crumpets—a curious scene. He clambered through marshmallow meadows of pink, But Moxes still followed, as quick as a wink! Their tongues made a tickle of tippity-taps, Their claws left a pattern like purple ink maps. “O mercy!” he pleaded, “O hush in your haste! My feet are all fumbling, I’ve no time to waste!” He climbed a tall mushroom that belched out a tune, Hid under its cap like a drowsical moon, But Moxes just snickered and scampered anew, So off Gox went, flailing through peppermint dew. He wiggled and wobbled, he whooshed through a glen, He tumbled and trundled through twiggles of fen. The world spun in colors of custard and cream, As Gox kept on running through layers of dream. At last, by a lake full of lemon-drop fizz, He halted, heart-thundering, frantic and whiz. The Moxes surrounded him, eyes all a-gleam— But just as they snapped (or so it would seem), Gox blinked, and the Moxes fled poof in the air, The woods were all silent, no foes lingered there. He woke with a start beneath star-sparkled beams, Convinced of the horrors he’d seen in his dreams. For though Moxes vanish with morning’s first gleam, They rule, in poor Gox, every tiddly dream.

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