Neath-under traullen funks
Adroit bewee the gorest feen
Wathering blomly to the brunks,
Snithers slake, all grimmy sleen

Why persweeds this steptile glice,
Mid world of mucksey fud?
Muse of eggly mails and snice,
Rooz of mithering 'mong the slud?

"Yo, yon blathe! A halthing be!
Quathe betwixt the flaxling bork,
Til thy boosly tail doth snee,
And grabble up thy prathy mork!"

Alas! The steptile sweeks on me!
Fleeless risling forth bewongs
The juglar grabbling-gropling quee
Doth eyeball full and hector bongs.

"Take this, thy poozled brack!"
As snaying off his chub I took.
Til flatlay smoosty on his back.
And chaved against my borely hook.

My hookling iron I portly pried
Til warpled up the subly doomed,
Which under slake didst weez the cry
And drabbed his limply body tombed.

And so the brasty brack unseethed
His puckling dorths at swazy knights.
My gorpling hook doth finish gleed
And snoples all the steptile fights.