Happy Working Headbanging Song

Her belongings sparcely and neatly unpacked, Mary Poppins strolled smartly down the hallway and to the door of Ben Chandler.  A pinch of her cheeks and a straightening of her coat, and she rapped thrice on the door of the adolescent's lair, fully aware of the horrors it might contain.  But no fear or apprehension marred her stoic face.  A duty is a duty, and as good a place to start as any is where a child spends his or her days and nights, their room.

"Whazzit?" Ben challenged inarticulately as he swung the door open.  He scowled as best he could with this boyish, prepubescent face.

Taking no notice whatsoever, the bold nanny strode into the room looking briskly this way and that, "Disgraceful.  Simply disgraceful."  From the girly posters on the wall to the smouldering heap of befouled laundry on the floor, the room was simply not in keeping with her standards, or any of which she could think.

"Oy, this is my room!" Ben hurled aggressively, though he made no move from where he stood still holding the door.

"This simply won't do, now will it?  We have work to do."

Ben snorted, "You have work to do, you mean, hired help and all."

"Work's hardly work at all when done to a happy tune."

"I'll tune yer..." Ben muttered, though he trailed off as Mary hummed a few innocuous notes.  His eyes went wide as the room seemed to hum back.  Before his shocked ears, his Evil Ernie collective figurine (it's not a doll!) sprang to live, clambering down from the top of the computer desk.  His grin seemed to broaden as the tune picked up, now wailed from an invisible, soul-wrenching guitar.  The drum kit from Hell thumped out a beat as Boba Fett and the Predator figurines (again, not dolls!) assailed the dirty laundry.  A full demonic course chimed in to fill in a heavy metal version of the tune begun so sweetly by Ms. Poppins as the scantily clad women in the posters began covering themselves with scraps of papers as they ripped themselves off the walls and marched haughtily to the trash bin.

"Well, that is quite the variation on the tune as I remember it," Mary mused, watching Evil Ernie strum an invisible guitar between scrubbing slurs and slightly satanic symbols from the wall beside Ben's bed.  "Still, as long as the work gets done, and at this rate we'll have the room ship shape in no time at all.  Rather catchy rendition, wouldn't you say, young Master Chandler?"

Ben, for once in his generally mouthy adolescence, was quite speechless and more than a little worried.  This was beyond Supernanny. 

The End

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