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One thundering Thursday, in a thicket of trees I had thought I had thunk a real thought.
I was thinking deeply, when alas, creepily, a thought appeared, jeering at the tip of my tongue.
It said “At once you thought you’d thunk a thought, but alas, you’ll see, a thought has thunk you.”
“And now not the faintest idea, nor the ficklest of feeling should find your fopdoodle brain.”
I said to myself “how dare he! A thought should ever be thought, if ever a thought could be thunk, shall a man whom strained to purpose his processor be graced not but by a single thought?
Nay, he shant.
So, I destined to discover this thought that tittered at the tip of my tongue, though I realized forthwith, I haven’t the clumsiest clue as to how one might think a thought that ought not be thunk.
So, I sat and I thunk, and I thunk and I sat, hoping a thought would hitherto appear.
When alas, the truth! it came to me! To identify the idea, I first ought inspect it’s initial conception. Then out it would pop from mine own minds eye, and have it I would. And a thoughtless, schemeless, mindless oaf, ne’er again shalt I be.
So, I huffed and I puffed, snorted and wiffled, pondering at the peak of my strength. I reckoned, conceived, reminisced, and conflated. With all of my might I conflabulated.
But regrettably out came not but a poof of air. And this air did flow henceforth from my rump and I thunk amidst all this hard thinking, it’s clear that I stunk.
And off flew the thought, giggling and taunting, laughing, and flaunting until he was gone. Ne’er again did I think up the thought that escaped. And I wept in my stench of my stinking attempt of thinking a thought that ne’er be thunk.
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