The Ballad of Bobby the Cheesemaker

Bobby made cheese. Not just any cheese but the finest cheese in all the land. That was, until the arrival of the Dark Wizard Von Chunsagona.

The Dark Wizard was not just any ordinary cheesemaker. He was an insane, cheese making machine with robotic arms and milk as black as his heart. The Dark Wizard wowed the villagers with cheese so tasty it made roses smell like rotting flesh in comparison. Bobby was driven out of town, his cheese making deemed substandard and ordinary.

Bobby ventured high into the Patagonian Mountains, his life’s works and accomplishments a distant memory, his back hunched over and riddled with arthritis, his pantaloons long abandoned and replaced with plain trousers, lacking in style as they were. Onward he climbed into the deepest depths of the mountains, the chill air sapping at his strength.

It was there he found a cave which he climbed into for shelter. The cave was small and Bobby had to duck down low and crawl through the entrance. But once inside he gazed upon a wondrous sight. Bobby had stumbled upon an ancient secret, a secret that had once been guarded by an order of Religious Warriors that had long since died away. For thousands of years the secret had laid unguarded but now Bobby had uncovered it.

Back in the village the peasants grew fat and became addicted to the Dark Wizard’s delectable cheese. They craved his Gouda and Swiss, and fought over his Blue Vein. Soon dark clouds began to form around the town. The villagers became more and more agitated. Fights began to break out and soon a great fire began to rise up in the town centre. Hotter and hotter the fire grew while the Dark Wizard concocted more and more dark and delicious rolls of cheese.

Then, out of the fog, mist and smoke that had embroiled the town emerged Bobby, returned from the cave and sporting the flashiest pantaloons crafted out of the finest mole hair and embroidered with jewels and cheese making equipment the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Alexander the Great and sometimes sheep herder. The people cowered from Bobby as he passed by, his pants jingling as he walked, clutching a banjo, whose origins had long been forgotten and whose inclusion in this story was a late decision, above his head.

Slowly he began to play the banjo and the smoke, clouds and mist began to clear. Louder and louder his music became until nothing else could be heard. Then a second banjo appeared, then a third and a fourth. Higher and higher Bobby stacked the banjos until no less then 8 (and no more then 9) had been stacked. Bobby’s hands ran with blood as he furiously played the stack of banjos.

Then out of nowhere Bobby produced a roll of Tasty cheese that had been forged in the pit of a great volcano. With expert precision he began to strum the banjos with the cheese and as he did so the shaved pieces tumbled atop a salad his feet had been preparing while he played. More and more cheese was shaven until the roll had been shaven down to a perfect arrow. And it was with this arrow that Bobby speared himself a moose that had been minding its own business and lofting the moose with the arrow he strummed the banjos with the moose’s antlers.

The villagers cried out as one, as the music Bobby had produced reached its dramatic crescendo for at the final note Bobby made his Coup d’├ętat. He thrust an Atomic Bomb into the mouth of the moose and strummed the most beautiful note the Universe would ever know… the note from the long forgotten Double Atomic Whipsnake.


  1. California Whipsnake
    Posted 7 February 2008 at 11:13 am | Permalink

    I prefer my tasty cheese without blood of Bobby the Cheesemaker.

  2. Posted 7 February 2008 at 12:17 pm | Permalink

    Twas epic, but didnt have the iambic pentameter that I expect, nay demand, of epic poetry.

    Conclusion: Read the Odyssey, and come back

    4.5 stars out of 4.7

  3. Posted 7 February 2008 at 12:21 pm | Permalink

    I didn’t even know I was writing an epic poem… the words just flowed out like divine inspiration.