Prologue Sing, O Muse, of the kappa who came down from the river, water dish full upon his crown, seeking only honest labor in the fields of the harvest season. Little did he know the Fates had already begun to weave.
Parodos (Enter the Chorus) CHORUS OF VILLAGERS: Behold, Mr. Tulip, who in his hubris sought to hasten what the gods made slow! His elixir quickens the seed, yes, but what grows swiftly withers and withers swiftly. Woe to any who trust in shortcuts! Woe, woe!
The Agon The kappa sowed, and the crops rose with unnatural speed, swelling beyond all mortal proportion. And lo, among them grew cucumbers, the sacred fruit most beloved of his kind. Yet even as he rejoiced, the leaves began to brown. The kappa, clicking with desperate haste, struck at the very stars themselves to drive the cursed fertilizer from the roots. He punched the heavens. He punched them again. Was ever a creature so defiant of cosmic order?
Exodus CHORUS: And so he labored, saving what he could, grieving what he could not. For no hand, however swift, may undo the folly of another's ambition.
The kappa bowed deeply in sorrow, as is his custom, and the water spilled from his dish. Thus was his strength lost, and thus ends our tale.
Catharsis achieved. Five stars. I have wept into my cucumbers.