The Fowlsome Bustard
Erstime, ere bards nor Wondering Joyceters
did glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
Sir Slip The Most (a Figleafmoistner)
was undangled…and his sling unslung.
‘Twas on the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard,
with her Fowlling Fopplott never wording,
that the hunkerflesh-fed Fowlsome Bustard,
viewed best by dark, was ever curdling.
Sir Slip, slop-upped and grammar-morphing,
from moltensteam one dawnless dread,
swear-foring most and all ef-alling,
did clopp young Fopplott's furgeld head.
The Bustard drubbed Slip: 'Dumcummayler!
To flump the sweet lad's yearnsomeness!
Bludaddled knight! Brain-drained wassailler!'
(Sweet Fopplott mock-loomed nasalfless)
"Clogsfyberbucks!" Slip rudblud obscented,
'That nert, that frot, that wibeljankie,
swombodled, globbed, or sexcremented
God don't know notwot, in me hankie.'
The discompuncted Bustard illglimned.
Then, ventforthing with a scroatful shout,
she snouted, all redblynd and goredimned,
to clip Sir Slip a gobfilt clout.
Bowelwildered, and fear-smeared arear,
and awefulled of trans-plonker stretch,
Slip, leaping to escape his nadir,
unware… did bare….. his hunkerflesh….
Hencetime, now bards and Wondering Joyceters
do glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
durst ne'er no Sir nor Figleafmoistner,
no furgeld Fowlling to one bung.