“Adelbert! Adelbert! It’s time to play zither!”
Adelbert’s mother wasn’t very fond of Adelbert, but she did love one thing about her son. When she looked down at the small boy, dressed in button-up zither whites and a tight zither skirt, her heart leapt for money. That Friday was Zither Cup, and everyone in Frankenton knew, Adelbert was Zither Hither (that’s the “Hither,” or greatest Zither, as opposed to the “Nither,” the sliv-fither of oughty kiver), and the grand prize for the cup was money. Adelbert’s mother beamed.
“It’s Friday, and today’s the Zither Cup!”
Adelbert stepped out onto the court. All he knew in his life was how to step out onto the court. He was carried at all other times, and carried in that over the shoulder way where the blood drains to the head. When he showed himself, the crowd cheered “Zither champ” or “Red head!” (because of the head blood), or “Pink head!” (if it had sort of faded), or “Head!” (if Adelbert’s pale complexion peaked through his sweaty little knither—the zither champ’s grither giver).
“Seven to nought! And one point left!”
It was seven to nought and one point left when Adelbert thought of the Hither idea of his young life. He looked into both eyes of his competition, young Kitter za Fritter Pitter Pitter. Kitter za was scared. He was angry. But mostly he was Nither. Adelbert realized something then about fame and fortune: it was just too much. He wanted a peanut butter sandwich and a bath. He dropped his zither racquet and took off his zither skirt and laid down flat on his back. “Addeeeelllbeeeerrt,” his mother screamed, “Adeeeellbertt!! Iiiitt’s ttiiime to plaaay ziiiither!” But it was not. It was time to Nither.
“Eight to nought and nothing left it’s done, Adelbert wins!”
Turns out it was young Kitter za Fritter’s serve, and he missed in bavitter trivir in the yidder box! Adelbert wins!!!!