Wordingtane

Beyond the trembly weald to glassy glane beneath the wooden breath where thoughts remain 'twas a harkened land called Wordingtane. The Wizard of Words ruled this land in grips vernacular he had sturly hand, gimbly grand. None in Wordingtane fair match for him he needn't fiat, he could whim his ekel pronouncements in spelling fusion for peasants quiet conclusion. Speaking by riddles it's easy to say, save a fool, the perfect way. Long swiffen over time to mumbly masses in rhyme, it nestled in just fine. Amber all who would argue fribbled and frambled tied up and scrambled, brains rambled, fell off trillig tracks while simpering sloggers couldn't get back. The Riddler tacked to try who came from afar he posed an answer assert that vored in abyss and he lost his head. "No place for his hat", the Wizard said, "That was that", the crowd anored in callactic dord their cries flayed and all obeyed. Then the Fiddler spun his music trick and the Wizard metered in time, felled him with a trocken rhyme. Then proclaimed the silly Fool entered his aclaim so tangled a wordmess he'd profess, using words unheard, the Wizard unslurred, spinning in a web. So rilly and rich the "Wiz" confused began a twitch to twitch he did till flabbergast through the night till morning past. Whence he fell asleep at foolish feet with his verily own vorpal blade in hand the Wizard's head, in a wreck left his neck, and the fool would rule in grim humor this land to tell so trundly true, the end 'twas justine jewel. Now the sky is bright, land just right, 'tis the wave whilst the Fool did fight and twisted foils stretched in hand he won his refrain, startling reign.