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Oh my brother, oh my sister, here’s a blisterous tongue twister, on a theme and variation of Theo Whale now Here is a tale of a shed near the noth shaw, as they say in Ogunquit. I raise my left paw to say this is neither bonsai nor not a little in the rye, but a true quasi poem. There is a guy with a forked lisp, I declare to you I know’em, who said he heard this from the mouth of a horth that wath tho thmall that it lived in a mouthes houth that wath inthide the very plath where this thtory hath occured. Perhaps there is one in this tale that has a tail, but nobody graduated from Yale, so you needn’t be agitated or yale. I’ll try to be brief as I’m already awash in spell-check grief. I’ll give you a handkerchief instead of relief She said it happened in her she shed, though she’s never actually lived in said shed. I mustn't repeat names, as that is unchristian, but her Christian initials are Winnifred Jockobed Peabody Brown, a thin skin-head turned redhead, and a thoroughbred pre-med egghead from Horseheads. She laid a brown gown down on the bed in her she shed and with a double blade bread spreader she spread brown bread on the brown gown on the bedspread of the bed in her she shed. It makes sense because, you know, they matched, the bread and the gown. Then when Mister Ed, whom she used to ride and date, came ‘round, she lait his head right into her brown spread, which rent the gown, and then said he was a four-legged inbred clown. Being beggared as to why she did what she did and said what she said, he’s nobody’s clown nor never meant to rent anybody’s brown gown, because he’s a guy. He left bereft, with brown bread crumbs marking his way back to the rented tents in town. All the town bums they took them crumbs back to their tents, where crumby gents would likely abscound. One two-pound hound frowned at him with a hounding sound, as if sounds could frown. He got so turned around by it all that he thought to burn down their tents with a noun of renown. Why me said he. Blyme, she’s as slimy as a frog in fog, to a high tea degree. That one two-pound dog is actually three, and like Winnie, is barking up the wrong high tea tree. But you see, Miss funny-name Brown began to ruminate, like a cow with a cud. So she asked the judge to nip this in the budge, it mustn’t amount to more than a cent. Please take Ed behind my shed and cancel his account, or maybe bludge n’ curmudge him ‘til he’s dead, she said. Therefore instead, Judge Dredd sped his led sled ahead, to adjudicate what she said about the brown bread on her brown gown on the bed spread in her she-shed, with crumbs on the ground. At this point we all must stop and cogitate, like a sow in the mug. For he, being just, like we, must postulate, like a frau with a stud. Calculate, triangulate, percolate and at late, reallocate the poor guy’s fate before it is too latent in and for the good Judge’s mental state to save the rented tents Ed aims to incinerate. Could it be a presupposition of erectile function, a compunction to dip one’s unction into a redhead’s brown bread, thus rending the gown spread on the bed? Or a resumption of their dysfunction, at the junction of fraternization and calculation, commonly known all around town? Or was it all in her cracked egg head? Ask not to be caught in this good judge’s bones, or be fraught over brown bread spread on the bed spread and then spread on stones. Or who it actually was that rent the brown gown, who got incensed or what’s going down, with intents to burn tents down with a renown noun. Then there’s the question upon which no one can expound… is the elephant in the room a talking horse or a stalking clown? Nay, ask instead the one to whom belongs original intent. Winnifred Jockobed Peabody Brown, what chu gonna do when the tents burn down.

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