Jayne, here's my shot:
It proved a sour apocalypse.
The trumpet's blast was limp and flat
and the flame had chapped the dragon's lips.
The party at the extras' flat
the night before left the lot
inflammable and puking on the set.
They caught a gaffer hawking pot
and when they cuffed him they were met
by a contingency of docs
for legal weed. Even the skies
were out of sorts; the cloudy flocks,
swirling like Turner, sighed their good-byes
and inked a contract for a flick
with F. F. Coppola. And last the peals
of laughter at some gofer's trick:
Seven bloody fish-scarfing seals!
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