The Lord of the Coffee: Music for the Riders of Yuban
the song of the Yuban-ions, The Men of Twilight Tea-rooms
Where now is the cup and the saucer? Where is the spoon that was stirring?
Where is the bean and the blackroast, and the coffeegrinder whirring?
Where is the cozie for the kettle, and the goose-shaped trivet enduring?
Where is the buttered scones, and the white chocolate cheesecake alluring?
The have gone, over like my coffee break, like my brief hours of sleep.
The day is drawing down to a close, with one short rest for tea.
Who now shall gather the brew of the ground beans hasty,
Or imbibe the frosted cupcakes I have made, so tasty?
⌂
Minas Teabag is under siege from the foul forces of Mordonut. But to the rescue comes, on their fair steeds the Riders of Yuban with their king, Karóden of Breadoras, and he brings death and cake to the enemies of Good Coffee.
You know, writing these parodies makes me very hungry! Enjoy this; I am going for a snack...
Lord of the Coffee; Pelannor Fields Forever
Karóden became aware of Oléo, the leader of the Men of Margarine, and he would not wait for his onset, but crying to Snocone, he charged headlong to greet him. Great was the clash of their meeting. But the white fury of the Men of Yuban baked the hotter, and more skilled was their chefhood with the butterknife and long spatula. Fewer were they but they sliced through the Margarines like… well, like hot knives through butter!
But lo! Suddenly in the midst of the glory of the king his golden-brown shield was dimmed. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Down fell about him. There was a great honking sound, and the horses screamed and bolted.
"To me! To me!" cried Karóden, "Get up off your buns, men of Yuban! Fear no aqueous waterfowl!" But Snocone wild with terror stood up on high, fighting with the air, and then with a kick tossed the king onto the ground and galloped away. Karóden lay stunned.
The great shadow descended like a falling cloud. And behold! It was a winged creature; a bird, greater than any that the men of Yuban had ever seen, and it was naked, and had neither quill nor feather did it bear, but was covered in freezer-bitten flesh pimpled with the chill, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between boney drumsticks; and it stank.
Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A tiara of steel he bore, fashioned by the twisting of many forks, but between rim and robe naught there was to see, save only a deadly glow of a pilot-light: He was the KnishKing, Lord of the Nútralites. He urged his fell-fowl forward and in an evil voice he said, "Feast on his focaccia!"
King Karóden was helpless. He shrank back but could not escape the grinding yellowed beak. But he was not utterly forsaken. One stood there still, Poúpon the Young, faithful beyond fear, and with him was MochaMerry. They had both been born right through the charge, unharmed until the shadowbird arrived; then they had been unhorsed in the terror of his coming. MochaMerry lay on the ground like a glazed donut and tried to think of a way to get out of his contract.
Out of the blackness before the half-caff's eyes he thought that he heard Poúpon's voice speaking; yet now the voice seemed strangely high-pitched and girlish.
"Begone, foul turkey, you hyper-thyroid Cornish hen! Leave the dead in peace!"
Karóden raised one arm and said in a small voice, "I'm not dead yet."
Poúpon spared him a glance, then repeated with less conviction, "Leave the near-fatally wounded in peace, I say!"
"Actually, I feel fine…" added Karóden.
"Shhh!" hissed Poúpon. "You're costing me an Oscar!" To the great beast and its inky rider, he said boldly, "I will cook your goose if you touch him!"
The KnishKing halted and said, "Come not between the Nútralite and his prey, or he will not slay thee in they turn. He will bear thee away to the Houses of International Pancakes, where thy crusts will be devoured, thy coffee utterly consumed, and thy soul left naked before the Blood-shot Eye!"
"Do what you will," cried Poúpon, and from his pocket drew an ink-quill—deadly sharp, "but I will bring you your check, if I may.
"Thou wouldst try to cash me out? Thou fool! No living waiter may bill me for my tab!"
Then MochaMerry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Poúpon laughed, "No living waiter am I! You look upon a waitress! Mayówyn am I, Hélman's daughter. You stand between me and my tip-jar. Begone, if you be not deathless, for living or dark undead, I will spill your coffee if you touch it!" she spared another glance at Karóden, "or him!"
The featherless bustard screamed at her, but the Nútralite made no answer, as if he were filled with sudden doubt. 'Did I leave my cashcard in my other shroud?' he was thinking.
Mayówyn took advantage of his hesitance and with her mighty pen; she slew his putrid pigeon with a single stroke, proving the old adage that a writing instrument is indeed a mighty weapon—to the great amusement of those keeping track of clichés.
Greatly miffed, the KnishKing came forward with a great waffle-iron, and he swung it a deadly blow that glanced off of her bread-shield and left only criss-cross burn marks on its golden surface.
MochaMerry raised his head and the blackness was lifted from his eyes. His cloak had fallen over his head. Feeling foolish, he snuck up on the bony wraith and with his trusty barrow'd blade, he sliced the crossed garters that held up his baggy trousers.
The KnishKing was wearing KrispyKreme boxer shorts with the caption, "Ready or Not, When We're Hot, We're Hot!"
Mayówyn covered her mouth with her hand, but could not hold in her laughter.
Fatally embarrassed, the KnishKing fled from Middle girth, never to return to this story, unless it served the plot.
MochaMerry hurried to Mayówyn's side, and together with King Karóden they laughed hysterically until the men from the White City came and wrapped them in nice white jackets that had long sleeves that tied in the back. They were then borne with honour and fanfare into Minas Teabag, celebrated as heroes.
The Men of Yuban set about digging a barbecue pit big enough to roast a two-tonne squab.