With my siphon and funnel I march to the hills, stamping on insects to add to my kills. I have distributed thousands of pills, and now I must hide in a grot.

My siphon! My siphon! I dropped it back there. I must go and fetch it while the weather stands fair. I will need it within my elfin grot lair. So I retrace my steps at a trot.

My pathway is barred by a knight at arms. Alone and pale, he lacks all charms. I think I have seen him patrolling the farms, the farms where I poisoned the poultry.

Palely loitering like a monitor lizard, the knight plunges his lance right into my gizzard. “I am no knight, I’m a pinball wizard!” cries this latter-day Roger Daltrey.

I crumple to earth and let fall my funnel. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. A cliché I know, but as long as the sun’ll shine I’ll stay clear of the fiery pit.

The wizard twirls a mic on the end of a lead. By Christ, it is Roger Daltrey indeed! Is he going to sing in my hour of need? He’s such a preposterous git!

I reach for my funnel and chuck it at him. But the light at the end of the tunnel grows dim. My immediate prospects are decidedly grim. To die at the hands of The Who!

“See me, feel me, touch me –” I groan. “No, you must reap what you have sown” says Daltrey as I wail and moan. I am but left to rue.

I rue that I killed every hen, every duck, all the innocent pigs in their filthy muck. I was being an evil countryside Puck. Now I just want my Mommy.

Gore spouts from my gizzard, my life leaks away. But worse is to come ‘fore I call it a day. With his awful hair like a bale of hay, Daltrey shakes it and starts to sing “Tommy”.

At the last, the mercy of God doth abide. As he opened his gob, I died.