The Hobbles and the Honker (Soft)
In the land of Gumbolia, wide and quite long, The Hobbles once sang a democracy song. They rallied and voted and marched in the rain, Till a creature called Honker slithered into their lane.
Now the Honker was flashy, all feathers and noise, He juggled and shouted and promised new toys. He hollered and danced with a smirk on his face, And somehow he slithered into first place.
“He’s a joke,” cried the Hobbles, “a prank, a buffoon!” “He’ll fade like a hiccup! He’ll pop like a balloon!” But the Honker kept honking and puffing with pride, And more folks in Gumbolia climbed on for the ride.
He wore silly hats and he growled mean things, He barked about bogeymen, gave fear some wings. He sold golden slippers, he sold magic beans, He crowned himself King of the Vibe Machines.
And the Hobbles, poor Hobbles, just stared and they sighed, As their inboxes filled and their hope slowly died. They once had opinions, they once had a fight, But now they just doomscroll alone in the night.
Their thinkers were thinkers, with language so slick, They wrote fancy essays, with words deep and thick. But while they were drafting a twelve-page reply, The Honker was honking a pie in the sky.
So the Hobbles grew sleepy, their courage went dry, They numbed out with snacks and a five-season cry. They shopped in bulk, they hopped on a bike, And hoped that the Honker would vanish from spite.
“This can’t last forever,” some Hobbles would say, “He’ll melt like a snowball some blustery day.” But others just shrugged and stared into space, Feeling shame that they’d once run a noble race.
Yet not all was lost in the town of despair, For a few little Hobbles still dared to care. They met in small corners, they whispered and planned, They lifted each other and took little stands.
“We may not feel brave, or witty, or bright, But we’re still here breathing, and that means we fight.” They called up their neighbors, they stood at the polls, They swapped out their doomscrolls for nobler goals.
For though Honkers may honk and the noise may be thick, History moves, though never too quick. And Gumbolia, though weary, was not yet done, For courage is quiet, but strong when it runs.
So if you should feel that your hope’s lost its fizz, And your soul’s stuck in reruns of all that there is, Remember the Hobbles who once felt that way, And dared to keep going anyway.
The Hobbles and the Honker (Sharp)
In Gumbolia’s sprawl—long, loud, and absurd—
The Hobbles once voted and marched undeterred.
They sang songs of justice, they rallied with pride,
Till the Honker came honking, all smirk and no stride.
This Honker was flash wrapped in carnival sleaze,
A circus of feathers and catchphrases teased.
He juggled fake promises, shouted in rhyme,
And tap-danced his way to the front of the line.
“He’s a clown!” cried the Hobbles. “A walking whoopee!”
“He’ll vanish by Tuesday! He’s nonsense! He’s loopy!”
But the Honker kept puffing with bloated delight,
While more folks joined in on his spite-powered flight.
He wore hats like a toddler who lost a bet,
He barked about bogeymen you haven’t met.
He sold golden daydreams, snake oil in tins,
And crowned himself Emperor of the Hot Takes and Spins.
And the Hobbles? Poor souls—they wilted with dread,
Inbox explosions, more bad news ahead.
They once had a backbone, they once raised a fist,
Now they scroll through despair like a Netflix watchlist.
Their thinkers waxed on in twelve-paragraph threads,
Deep dives that no one but bots really read.
While they drafted rebuttals, pensive and slow,
The Honker screamed, “Look! A conspiracy show!”
So the Hobbles grew sluggish, resigned to their fate,
Snack-drunk and bingeing past reason or date.
They bought bulk distractions and hoped with a sigh,
That the Honker would vanish by seasonal die.
“This is a phase,” some would nervously mutter,
“He’ll melt like bad butter, he’ll flap off and flutter.”
But most just went mute, all spark drained and gone,
Ashamed they once marched, now barely hang on.
Yet in the gray murk of their grief-colored town,
A few little Hobbles refused to stay down.
They gathered in corners, whispered through fear,
And plotted a path that might pull them clear.
“We’re tired,” they said. “We’re jaded and sore,
But if breath’s in our lungs, we must fight a bit more.”
They rang up their neighbors, they knocked on a door,
They swapped out their doomscrolls for something with core.
For though Honkers may honk and the clueless may cheer,
History lumbers but does reappear.
And Gumbolia, frazzled, still had a drumbeat—
Because courage shows up in blistered, worn feet.
So if your resolve is as flat as old fizz,
And your soul is stuck rerunning all that there is,
Think of the Hobbles who once lost their way—
But chose to keep going, come what may.
Cinemorphosis 