A tribute to Albion Fuzz
Posted: Mon Sep 09, 2002 12:45 am
(Comment: Greetings! I know several folks here from elsewhere, including the inestimable Mako -- who just reminded me that Albion Fuzz has a forum. Ah, well, yes. So, I threw together a poetic tribute, along the lines of a cast/story recap. Let me know what you think!)
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Hello. I'm Alex. This is not my tale.
Compared to her my light can only pale.
While strips like ours are common on the Net,
Still this one reaches depths most strips don't get.
Some webcomics delight in the absurd,
And strain to reach the "technophile" or "nerd"...
Our storyteller wanted different-very.
His yarn is sensitive and literary.
Are you a reader? His style will attract.
How many strips have used "autodidact"?
But far more than the references here,
James Roberts makes our plight and humor clear.
So if you seek a comic with a soul,
A furry delving into social role;
Then I'll describe for you a strip that does:
Without further ado: "Albion Fuzz".
It opens on a dark and stormy night--
With words that Shakespeare, for King Lear, did write,
When Lear was mad and raving at his Fool.
You see? This story's from a different school.
The central figure huddles from the rain
For Life's mistreating Hrosvitha again.
Don't worry, she's called "Sybil" soon enough.
The lisping, German nun's name is too tough..
We next see Frances, offering succor:
A gently philanthropic Labrador.
Who offers fox a respite from the cold--
But this is not the same as tales of old.
A brighter scene is shortly close at hand:
First Lauren and then Tristan join the band
Black arts paired with black humor, then add beer.
Effects are deep and interesting, with fear.
Now comes the time to talk of many things:
Of diets lax, and Cabbages, and flings.
The grim tale of the Oysters is outdone;
The diet's reaching out to have some fun.
Can Immortality be then defined?
Our Sybil's nothing if not sharp of mind!
The implications for religion aired,
Then Sybil trundles off to be repaired.
Encounter with the devil boys de-tailed...
Then segue into prior times she's failed.
For storytelling Sybil has a gift,
And Frances now decides to give a lift.
The Flyers and the Protest incidental...
Then she encounters me: too sentimental.
But better than no sentiment at all?
Perhaps--I try for wit, but drop the bawl.
"I'm Alex. I'm a writer," I can tell her.
But I don't say what sort! This would repel her.
We follow Rebel Leader, crafty Frances,
And then with Sybil I start taking chances.
But she is gone from me in sudden starkness,
While from her view, the world contains no darkness.
From governmental logic Sybil backs
And faceless agencies disguise their tracks.
Now when you ask of Frances what the bells
Are tolling for--you'll laugh at what she tells.
The power Sybil grasps, and then declines,
Still brings her to the front of other minds.
A moment with a play, the Spade of Clubs
(And yes, there's method to the card-game rubs).
Next winter settles on our homeless wench
Who shudders, sleeping on a frozen bench.
A prior friend of Sybil's, Fenchurch tries
To help in her own way, 'ere Sybil dies.
You'll see how this turns out, but Sybil lives:
It's Christmas. Just the gifts depression gives?
No---sandwiched in between, a blow to pride.
But this works out, and our lass moves inside.
With me! A happy time, a change of views!
Then I learn of her: "We are not a muse".
The line's inspired, but the truth is there;
My writing, always troubled, fades to air.
She heads out,
---------------------------------------------------
Hello. I'm Alex. This is not my tale.
Compared to her my light can only pale.
While strips like ours are common on the Net,
Still this one reaches depths most strips don't get.
Some webcomics delight in the absurd,
And strain to reach the "technophile" or "nerd"...
Our storyteller wanted different-very.
His yarn is sensitive and literary.
Are you a reader? His style will attract.
How many strips have used "autodidact"?
But far more than the references here,
James Roberts makes our plight and humor clear.
So if you seek a comic with a soul,
A furry delving into social role;
Then I'll describe for you a strip that does:
Without further ado: "Albion Fuzz".
It opens on a dark and stormy night--
With words that Shakespeare, for King Lear, did write,
When Lear was mad and raving at his Fool.
You see? This story's from a different school.
The central figure huddles from the rain
For Life's mistreating Hrosvitha again.
Don't worry, she's called "Sybil" soon enough.
The lisping, German nun's name is too tough..
We next see Frances, offering succor:
A gently philanthropic Labrador.
Who offers fox a respite from the cold--
But this is not the same as tales of old.
A brighter scene is shortly close at hand:
First Lauren and then Tristan join the band
Black arts paired with black humor, then add beer.
Effects are deep and interesting, with fear.
Now comes the time to talk of many things:
Of diets lax, and Cabbages, and flings.
The grim tale of the Oysters is outdone;
The diet's reaching out to have some fun.
Can Immortality be then defined?
Our Sybil's nothing if not sharp of mind!
The implications for religion aired,
Then Sybil trundles off to be repaired.
Encounter with the devil boys de-tailed...
Then segue into prior times she's failed.
For storytelling Sybil has a gift,
And Frances now decides to give a lift.
The Flyers and the Protest incidental...
Then she encounters me: too sentimental.
But better than no sentiment at all?
Perhaps--I try for wit, but drop the bawl.
"I'm Alex. I'm a writer," I can tell her.
But I don't say what sort! This would repel her.
We follow Rebel Leader, crafty Frances,
And then with Sybil I start taking chances.
But she is gone from me in sudden starkness,
While from her view, the world contains no darkness.
From governmental logic Sybil backs
And faceless agencies disguise their tracks.
Now when you ask of Frances what the bells
Are tolling for--you'll laugh at what she tells.
The power Sybil grasps, and then declines,
Still brings her to the front of other minds.
A moment with a play, the Spade of Clubs
(And yes, there's method to the card-game rubs).
Next winter settles on our homeless wench
Who shudders, sleeping on a frozen bench.
A prior friend of Sybil's, Fenchurch tries
To help in her own way, 'ere Sybil dies.
You'll see how this turns out, but Sybil lives:
It's Christmas. Just the gifts depression gives?
No---sandwiched in between, a blow to pride.
But this works out, and our lass moves inside.
With me! A happy time, a change of views!
Then I learn of her: "We are not a muse".
The line's inspired, but the truth is there;
My writing, always troubled, fades to air.
She heads out,
