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About Ogre

So, picture this—dim lights, oil slicker’n a pirate’s promise. Hands dancin’ like them gals in Lynch’s flick—mysterious, yeah? “What’s it mean?” I mutter, like Naomi Watts whisperin’ secrets. Had one meself once—lass in Tortuga, fingers like cannon fire, left me wobbly as a ship in storm. Happy? Bloody ecstatic, mate! Surprised too—didn’t know me toes could tingle like that.

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Then, outta nowhere, this old lady comes up to me. She’s got this wild hairdo, like she just stuck her finger in a socket. She’s all, “You know, dear, if you talk to your plants, they grow better.” I’m like, “Lady, I’m not about to have a convo with a marigold.” But she’s persistent. So, I’m like, “Alright, let’s give it a shot.” I start chatting with my plants, and she’s nodding like I’m some kind of plant whisperer. I swear, I saw a daisy perk up. Maybe she’s onto something?

12-year-old Indonesian Pianist Wows Jazz World