Miss Celia Leblanc’s whirlwind ride to the Humber

The JS Witness protection program was in the badlands cutting lumber
and Miss Celia Leblanc hated every bit especially in regions lumbar
but she couldn’t complain against bad luck. Really: up was her number.
One day, in the badlands woods, a wild turkey caused her truck to tumbler
and she slid crashing into a cliff frail and sandy but just as cumber
as any you could collide with. Time is long, out with only a sandwich of cucumber
and tree blubber to drink. The sun looked a delicate shade of wavy umber
when from out of the forest she heard a “Zonk”. Was she dreaming in slumber?
No. It was the hippogriff stridumphing along. Shocked he shouted “St. Columba!
Is this the Leblanc who clonked me just days ago? Zonk! Or do you outnumber
us all with identical twinning?” “No. That was me. So sorry to encumber
your life once again.” “Zonk. I be no lubber or grubber or Leblanc snubber!
Fate has rolled her dice and cast us in a crazy coed, unspecific clubber.”
Celia’s brow knotted but she was interrupted. “Nay. Don’t be a quiet disturber,
Tis kismet; it’s predestined. We must not tarry to marry, you cute landlubber!”
And they did and I witnessed and they honeymooned in the estuary at Humber
where the Ouse and Trent meet for there is a castle to go plonk in! It’s rubber.


Miss Celia Leblanc meets His Honor Jerry

Jail was no beach house, all Celia could think of was Helsingør
and if the wind was blowing south or from, as feared, Stavanger.
But she didn’t make a fuss, nary a noise, she was no headbanger
and so the sound, when it came, did some trepidation bring’er!
It wasn’t loud, obnoxious or some kind of hell raising ear wringer,
no, rather it was melodic, catchy and, if anything, a humdinger.
It might be dramatique to wax you poetical, cause a cliffhanger
but why should I be a hanger wringer or a wronger clinger prolonger?
The face appearing through the light through the bars was a zinger
for there was none other than tabloid king, and mayor, Jerry Springer!
“Hey there! Time to get you sprung out of there you bird winger!”
“Your worship, to what do I owe to have to my cell you a bringer?”
“How convoluted you speak. But no matter. Stand back I’m a gunslinger.”
She did and he did and before you could say ‘That cat’s a Schrödinger’
Celia was sprung by Jerry the Springer. Away they rode on his klipspringer.
As they bounded outskirts of Rabaul she asked of her freedom bringer
“Who minds Cincinnati as you rescue folk oh Jerry the me springer?”
He laughed, “Hahaha, no problem, I leave it to Fred my doppelgänger!
Now we must fly back to my secret base in North Dakota, in Sanger,
so hold tight for to the skies my trusty steed will be an us flinger.”

Miss Celia Leblanc lands in Rabaul

The traffic began and continued to be most unfairly foul
but park she finally did just as her stomach it went growl
No time! She hurried on board the aeroplane iconed with an owl
and such a long trip that she visited the pilot twice behind his cowl.
But the man at customs at the International Airport Express of Rabaul
he of the lifted nose, bored aire, sweaty brow and heavy jowl
did ask this question of our heroine Leblanc with a menacing scowl:
“Why did you come here? Are you the type that one of our laws you’ll come afoul?”
“I have come to study gamefowl, peafowl, wildfowl, moorfowl, and oh waterfowl!”
“There’s an answer that is decidedly, unreservedly, and indecently fowl
and yet no fault will I find in it no matter how I may skulk and prowl.”
So leave that port did she though arrested in so few seconds she did howl
twas for toilet paper stuck to her shoe for twis a crime to so befoul
that city. So in the tronk she did end where the wretched unhinged doth yowl.

The crash bang tale of Miss Celia Leblanc

The wee red car reedily went honk
but too late and it hit with a clonk
the hippogriff who groused out “Zonk!”
Out came the girl worried she’d conk
“Sorry, sorry! My brakes are all cronk!”
“By that as it may, young lady, pétanque
is not to be played with a car! Tronk!
Is that where you wish to go plonk?”
“Plonk? Is that some kind of honky-tonk?”
“Well… it could mean to badly play music: plonk!
But I mean it to be set down heavily in gaol: plonk.”
“Oh. No! On a wall my head I should bonk
if I wished that.” “Well, then! Be off! Zonk!”
“Thank’ee sir, I’ll nae forget thee or my name be not Leblanc!”