Hitherforth IX.

Bemottled stands the weathershroom,
unbronkst and widdeld mightyley.
He saws the lenz in opperswitch
– flatu he notters gelderley.

Oh why do thou beromber mine?

Thyst lofty radix to behold
dost spread on towest bline,
but where the conkerditch
– so bold – is wonking rich,
why dorst thy scoin point mottlewards?

Here’s I – in wibberlingens dretch
where nonesoever winker stands
beside the witherweathers operhetch!

Hitherforth VI.

„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.