Notes About The Poem
A game that makes no sense, and playing it will warp your mind.
Wild Muhdo Friday
On Friday night, when shadows tilt,
The fellows gather on the silt
To play the game of Muhdo wild,
Where rules are strange and brains are biled.
First comes Bimble, long and sleek,
With a head shaped like a teapot spout,
His left hand is a single leek,
His right, a mallet stout.
His feet are broad like wooden spoons,
He hums odd tunes to silver moons.
Beside him sits Grumple-Gloo,
Whose noggin resembles a folded shoe.
His fingers are like spiral vines,
His left foot stumped, his right aligned
Like three small pears upon a tray—
He chuckles as he joins the play.
And Snargle, wobbly, grand, and tall,
Has a head shaped like a bowling ball!
His palms are broad as flying trays,
His left foot hops, his right foot sways,
Formed just like a crescent moon,
He slumps upon his chair by noon.
How play they Muhdo? Simple, see!
You roll three acorns in the sea,
Then toss a button through a ring,
And flub the song the finches sing!
To win, one must first slap his knee,
And yell "FLUM-GLUB!" at precisely three,
While balancing a buttered tray—
Thus Muhdo claims its winner today!
They speak in squeaks and burbling blips:
"Oh frump the ziggle!" Bimble drips.
"More fritzle-froth!" shouts Grumple-Gloo,
"The wizzle-wump belongs to you!"
They feast on pickled thimble-crabs,
And soggy, fizzing jellied-dabs,
Slurping lukewarm beetle-juice,
And fermented dandelion juice,
Crunching down on salted stone,
And chewing sour marrow-bone.
At last, bold Bimble slaps his knee!
He shouts "FLUM-GLUB!" at three-p-m,
He drops his mallet, drops his leek,
And lets out one dramatic squeak!
Upon the news of victory won,
He spins around three times in fun,
Stuffs a teapot in his ear,
And gallops off with hearty cheer!
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