Smeagol: “I, Smeagol, declare that this poetry slam is on. Your first poem must be in Gollumic pentameter.”
Charlee: “Gollumic pentameter?”
Chaplin: “I don’t think that’s even a thing.”
Smeagol: “It might not be a thing on the surface, but it’s all the rage at Club Smeagol.”
Spicoli: “Why does the weird dude get to decide what kind of poem they do?”
Dennis: “I guess on account of we said he could be the judge.”
Mouse: “What have you hipsters gotten us into?!”

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