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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead. Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed. The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone. Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone. There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared, but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared; they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared, for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired. Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff, slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff (no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff); with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff; the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff. The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch, though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such. Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill, then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the kill; their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill. Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes; yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes. Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled. What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
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