They are three musketeers who know their trade. They used to carve their verses from the noblest of woods. Polish the refrains, again and again ‘till it shone like the purest gold.
Now they are picking up broken pieces and fool’s gold. Catching fleeting ideas out of thin air. Building shaky constructions that hover on the brink of collapse, but that lean on each other to grow strong and sturdy. They got bored with the middle of the road, stumbled off the beaten path and entered the wasteland.
They are Mr. Mibbler.
