Feaver dreams are made of cheese
Who am I to disagree?
I sampled the curds and the seven Bries
Everybody’s looking for Kesong
Some of them want Danish Blue
Some of them want Danish Tilsit
Some of them want some Danbo
Some of them want some Fynbo too

Manouri, Hervat, Halloumi

(Hold your Urda up--Keep your Urda up—Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up—Brunost’s gone-- Keep your Urda up)

I can eat brie without a blink of mine eyes
Look at my size, I got girth from my birth
and I'll be dreaming until I dies
These ain't no lies, I'm from the soil of this earth

I got sweet dreams made of swiss cheese
50k gold watch bought with a lease
Booker T ain't got shit on me
Cuz I'm a Wizard an MC and a Deputy

Richard be dreaming of my nuts
His bust is burly but he's a sex deviant Shirley
He's staring alluringly, his eyes show he wants to be in me
I just had a dream my body sued me... if I was my body I'd sue me too

Big Town Wizard and the WZRR doing sexual motions
Not without some lotions and some viagra potions
A locomotion of rock hard dicks causing a commotion
Some emotion from those mirrin chicks we're causing conception
An inception of our love making, he's gonna give me lockjaw
What's with all the hoopla? We're just depicting kamasutra

I can eat brie without a blink of mine eyes
Look at my size, I got girth from my birth
and I'll be dreaming until I dies
These ain't no lies, I'm from the soil of this earth

(Hold your Urda up--Keep your Urda up—Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone)
(Hold your Urda up—Brunost’s gone-- Keep your Urda up)

Feaver dreams are made of cheese
Who am I to disagree?
I sampled the curds and the seven Bries
Everybody’s looking for Kesong
Some of them want Danish Blue
Some of them want Danish Tilsit
Some of them want some Danbo
Some of them want some Fynbo too

Danmark? Backyard, yes the backyard. In the original veggie patch was a television, or a little further down where the ship used to be, and on the television was some sort of cooking show; or torture porn: shrimps were being slowly roasted—perhaps by smoke—above a large collection of other live shrimps. Though, it was hard to tell if they were alive, I eventually decided that they were. It seemed to take place in our backyard—the footage on the television shard; I could see the side fence behind the screen, though it looked as if it had been filmed during the ‘70s; or at the very least it was full of ‘70s pastiche and bogan pride; Aussie pride, whatever, Pride
It got dark; we didn’t watch the show for long. It was probably turned off once we worked out that the shrimps were being cooked alive. ***** was walking around, and near the gully trap, or rather not the gully trap, but the hole in front of the bathroom, which is near the gully trap anyway, and was attacked by a gigantic koala/badger/polar bear/panda combo, but really only the first two. I chased the koala/badger off, up the ladder and onto the roof; it was very loud on the roof, and ***** jumped into Mrs. ********’. I had to climb in after him, over the fence; he had hurt his legs in the confrontation, and I carried him back to our own sovereign nation; neighbourly segregation.
I discussed with **** and ***** what could be done about the koala/badgers (badgager if you prefer) as they were a regular problem, and they kept attacking *****. Though they never succeeded in hurting him, he often succeeded in hurting himself due to the attack; it was his fault as much as theirs, of course, but it was not up to us to protect the koalas/badgers or badgager if you prefer. ***** and **** didn’t have many suggestions, nor seemed very worried by it: **** was angry with *****, and ***** was wearing rubber gloves, and doing something in the laundry; cooking? Washing dishes? Perhaps something dangerous; thus the gloves and haziness.
I was playing Resident Evil 6 with *****, not *****; what’s the difference, though? Really. It wasn’t so much that we were playing it, as that we were caught up in a zombie apocalypse, but obviously we were actually playing it, even though Resident Evil isn’t actually about zombies anymore. In any case we were by the Yarra; it was a sunny day, and we needed some food. Across the Yarra was our house—or rather, my home—and we swam across, or took a raft, or floated; some sort of game mechanic to get us bloated, and we weren’t wet; we scravanged in ****’s room for biscuits, chocolates, and sweets; savoury biscuits too; good eats for me and you.
Once outside, and across the Yarra in the park, the other survivors gathered around. The daughter of the two lesbians from ******* came up to us, and she told us that we were about to be ambushed by a group of zombie dogs (mostly cocker spaniels and lassies as we would soon find out, though she did not tell us this) and we had to flee; they were special dogs, and we would not be able to defend ourselves against them—so we fled, I carried ***** with me, but the dogs were too fast for us; I climbed up a tree, but I wasn’t safe, and nor was he, though ***** and **** didn’t seem to mind; though they were eaten too in good time.
Eventually we all were killed, and ended up discussing what had happened in a hospital; ******’s nurse and secretary were both there, and they were adamant that we shouldn’t have fled; eventually the poor girl admitted that she had lied, and didn’t want to hurt the dogs, because she had always wanted a dog as a pet when she was a child; though she still was one, no one was really a child anymore. Not after the zombie apocalypse and the world war. In any case we decided to try again, this time fighting back; this time with a rocket launcher—and whatever else we had; I had the rocket launcher (I had more weapons than I should have had). I had hoarded them in my video game grade backpack. It worked.
Once we had survived, we ended up in a suave French comic book; it was rather synthetic and fake, and boring too; it was no Tintin, but we couldn’t help that—it wasn’t our fault! Everything was blue and futuristic and fantastical. It was science fiction, and set in the future; a French dystopian full of friction, and very Deus Ex-y future. The French people in it were annoying and obnoxious, probably like the famous French stereotypes that don’t really exist, in any case it was actually written by an American; probably the Buffy guy. It was overrated enough to have been written by him, and that made it all the more annoying, and strangely uplifting.
Jamie Oliver’s show was on, and he was cooking something with $100 beef—steaks. His friend had roasted the vegetables for him; his friend was very gay, and he gave him his vegetables in his apartment—no euphemism—in Jamie’s, and although the meat was cooked, they were going to eat it elsewhere: while canoeing in the themes. It was a rather awkward proposition; neither of them were being canoe men, and they kept sinking and getting the food wet, though both of them agreed that it was well worth the money and the effort; Jamie blamed the construction of the canoe, but it was their canoeing technique that was that was the shepherd of their repeated—though not fatal—drowning.
His gay friend agreed that the steaks were exceptional, though he did not approve of eating meat, and he still thought that cows were very cute, and did not deserve to be eaten. Perhaps he was only against beef eating, or beefeaters; was he a revolutionary, or just a gay? Whatever he was, he and Jamie soon ended up back on dry land, and it turned out that we were in England too, on holiday, because as they loaded their canoe (that damned canoe; Jamie thought) into their expensive car amongst all the vintage ones parked nearby, we were on our way to visit the ******** and his family.
The ******** lived in a small run down house in the Irish suburbs; it was very white, but with the paint peeling inside, and the walls cracked; there was a second storey, but each room was small and cramped, and the ceiling was low; the light dull. The pride of the house was an illuminated wooden cross, still polished and modern looking, that was hung on the wall beneath the front window in pride of place; a centrepiece like a mantelpiece or fireplace, but the ******** and his two brothers (the ones that were home at least) did not seem too pleased by it, and took us into the lounge room instead; “buy it,” their parents had said.
I had to tell ***** and **** and ******* that they couldn’t let the brothers know about SBR; the ******** wanted them to remain ignorant, and I whispered this to them, but ***** almost repeated what I said out loud; loud enough for his brothers to hear! The ******** wanted to do a performance with one of his brothers, but to do that he had to first make a pita bread pizza; the performance relied on it, whatever it was, that the performance was, not what the pita bread pizza was, though the toppings were a mystery and I only hoped that it did not contain onion; though I had a feeling it would contain salsa and corn chips: both which contain onion in chemical flavouring form; patches of garlic sourced from culinary porn.
The brother that we were talking to told us that he was a carpenter, but would have to join the army in the modern economic climate; we were sympathetic; it was a little brighter in the lounge room, but the quality of the light was more diode than LED. CRT, rather than LCD. The ******** returned with the pita bread; it did have onion on it: my worst fears had been confirmed. And capsicum, and tomato; red, green, and garlic. It was well presented, and realised, though did not have much in the way of cheese, and smelt rather cheaply made; nevertheless, it was not only for eating, but for performing too...and what a performance it was.