High up there,
in wooden crocks
a nutter spucks
and sizzles twice.
Deep, deep down,
in muddy prucks
a spougle yawks
so cummertised.
We watch all days
and through the nights
them lurxing restless –
endlessly.
And us sit there
so lurxalised.
What hitherforth
sets flutoley.
Thus, mottles hard.
Oh dearest drought is you the end?
bewilderling on you I blame,
what givers me the crocks!
On shame is hitherforth no rend
by which witch is on others drought
now here I mottle hard,
but you know thyst through conkerditch.
„For hither sake, what shall I forth?“
the wise man said and knuttered hard.
„I cannot lump“, the himbling roused,
and cumbled through his brimmerfart,
where urglings mucked and crummertoused.
„So, rush my friend and furzle puff“,
the himbling spously cowled.
The wise man fudsed and poundled huff.
And endless lasting spunky yowled
the urglings in their knuttertorse.
Bawim bawom – whom hearst I drought?
Unbronkest is the wibberling.
And wibberling indeed by name,
my wobber willst thou need
for crest on crest the wockingbird
awimbels wimmering his feet.
Bewildst, I must not say jer name
– for hither is now forth.
Oh, underbronkest grimm that shruvels me!
I’d really love to rumple someones crest,
but whom shall I berump and what?
it hitherforth is always notherflup
and then – direction will become bewaringless
and underbronkest grimm it get’s unbearingless!
To twankle in latorce, my son
But nonetheless to cronk the detch
Is bad, but shrink your flat-to-lance
And struggle through most itchy stetch.
Does this not work, my flappest child
Just wank the shrank in brutest cruck.
Then suddenly patonk gets hilde
This hitherforth is biggest luck!
Hitherforth thou shallt, my friend
not listen tow your sins!
We lay besieged by holyness,
not swivering at chins.
Where theist is tow on tow,
no swivvel did I got,
but if thy dibberwabberling is wonk,
thou shall be Patonk!
Thy swamble tow has swivered yet
to brimble hitherforth, my friend.
So catch thy tow to bliver it
and swaigle to the end.
