Part Greek tragedy, part Elizabethan drama, part Anglo-Saxon epic!

Uripidiis: I say, is that a maroon polywumpet?
Aethelgryth: Verily, von polywumpet red violet tango.
Uripidiis: Perhaps I shall taste or dance with it?
Aethelgryth: Mayhap, with tapping comes tongue lashing danger unit.
Uripidiis: I want a mill!
Aethelgryth: For which to manufacture polywumpet green stab?
Polygrumpet: Stab dance moon!
Aethelgryth: Silence, pon juupyr!
Uripidiis: Alas.
Polygrumpet: Phooey.
Aethelgryth: Indeed.
Chorus: Run! Run! The moon doth attack the sky from the ground in great furious anger not seen since the winter of 1954, when some guy did something that made a tractor blow up down town! Most horrible! Many scaldings!
Polygrumpet: *dies*
Uripidiis: Oh no! Grumpet and wumpet, both maroon and dead!
Aethelgryth: Falter not, luna comes. We scurry, scurry to ball room far yester!
Chorus: Yes! Scurry! Not that it helped little Timmy Watson when the neighbor’s bulldog ate his leg and then spit on him. We had to rush him to the hospital. Most terrible, seeing as the hospital was on fire at the time. The scaldings ended up killing him. Poor thing.
Aethelgryth: Arrest!
Uripidiis: Yay!
Polygrumpet: *humice*
Chorus: No! Not humice! The stuff gets all over the place. Causes landslides and bathing. Nasty nasty. Especially when those baths get too hot, because then they can scald you. Rotten scaldings.
Aethelgryth: Arm beating, Alabama home, you polywumpgrumpet take, exorcism.
Uripidiis: But I am blind, and cannot see the light of the polywumpet anymore. Forgive me!
Polygrumpet: *sediment*
Chorus: Run! The pressure will make him scalding hot!