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Poem

So we’re going on a picnic with the pygmy, Pixie Poggly, being the quirky queenly 
quaintly quickly person she is and her friend a raunchy rascal reverently named 
Andy Bailey. As you remember he was in the Aussie army association, barely 
battling the banshee that were bawdy blackly bloody in the boggy boundary briefly 
in the outback, and lets not forget pixie’s perky prominent pal that is a bossy, 
bluntly, brainy, bookie, breathing brashly, balmy, bits of boogie bookie chatter to 
all the cheery, choicely, chunky crowd around his choosey, cheesy, cheaply 
choice of chummy spots, and in his coarsely cocky way, he coyly clamors crafty 
creepy words that really don’t say what they needs to say, but confuses even the 
gentle, ghostly, gaudy, gawky, gabby, gypsy genie down in the gaily, gabby, 
ghastly valley town called Gatsby. I hear even Fatty Fannie the fancy, fleecy, 
flimsy, flowery, and foxy maiden that has her doggie, “Dotty” watching her dreamy, 
dressy, downy, dowry. And to make things easier Pixie’s dumpy daffy deafly, dinky 
donkey named Dixie is going to carry all the supplies, and we are going to the 
daffy damply dainty little dairy where the daisies  grow daily in the deeply densely 
droopy grasses next to the hay, and it sounds like it will be a giddy, giggly, goodly, 
goofy, goosey, grabby good grammar in all its Grammy award wining grandeur 
day.
Parts of this poem were copied from another poem that I cannot display here, but 
that I did write, it is called “The Picnic” and I thought this would be some fun 
reading for all here.

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