Baron Von Paranoia's lurid chap book

Jimeney cricket -- What is it? (pronounced Hymeny) The Baron -- Tis my latest chap book. Jimeney -- Cool, can I see it? The Baron -- Yes, but you must promise not to copy it. Not to show it to another. To only read it at night. Never to read it aloud, or in the company of others. Most of all... Tell no one about it. NO ONE! Jimeney -- Why? You are not even that good at poetry. I like the way it glows though. Quite lurid. The Baron -- That's how it starts my friend, but then CRACK! You wake up one day with a fresh revelation. They are out there. Right now. Waiting to steal my bad poetry and turn it into their bad poetry and even worse things. They might call it their own, and never mention me at all. And make songs and sweet sweet love in Volkswagons. Jimeney -- You think they would pull a Lewinsky like that on you? What does your father the Emperor of Drag-ons say about all of this. The Baron -- He said "write a lurid chap book and fein acute paranoia." He gave me this wild mink coat and a cigar named Louie Loueye. That was this morning after a breakfast of NATO snack pies and butterscotch ding-a-lings. Jimeney -- It's a nice coat. Can I feel it? The Baron -- Sure, feel it twice if you like. For now and later, and do me a favor, don't read the book. Then tomorrow, tell me you loved it behind my back. That way, I'll know for sure you're my good buddy 10-4? Jimeney -- Great! Thanks! You know what Baron Von Paranoia? You are to pumice what dippity doo gel is to bald men everywhere. Thanks for the chap book, and I'll see you never again. HA! Ha! (Jimeney rubs his wings together and plays a sad ballad) Now I have your lurid chap book of bad poetry! What are you going to do about it Baron? The Baron -- 5...4...3...2...1... BOOM! (A smoldering and still kicking cricket leg lands behind him) Write another I suppose. (The Baron donns his cape and mounts his steed) Hate to run along, but there is more bad poetry out there calling me. Pleading with me to fill another Paranoid poet's chapbook. To blow their tight little insect minds! (we hear an evil laugh like cackle followed by the soft sigh of breaking wind past mad hollow cheeks.) No bad poetry will ever be safe again.