Astride the tri-humped Ghymly

I rode the Widgeon Flat

and tumbled down its windswept hill

to fan the sweating Billawat

 

the drying droplets crystal clear

hit the sands of dime and dust

exhuming humid threads of steel

weaving roads of silken rust   

 

and so I travelled sight unseen

the Ghymlys’ tread was mute

and by the shores of Kodlawudg

I saw the rolling waves of jute

 

supplying us with sustenance 

flying circles through the weft

see, the giant Ducknee Yagda 

had spied our lack of heft

 

sufficiently suffonsified

we headed for the dunes

and watched the wopsy rising

of the siamese moons

 

and in that spooksome light

their peckers pointing west

fornicating Pedoliths

procreate with zest

 

their acetylene Pundits 

all billowed in their rage 

spewing verbal flames

tried to chase them off this page

 

but the Ghymly knew their folly

and rose on nether limbs

and trod upon their wicked

geriatric whims

 

and a wall of Jawin' Gabblings

further wrinkled their demeanour

those verbicidal maniacs

journalistically were meaner

 

in flatulent abandon

they never more would grope

in illicit understanding

those Pundits lost all hope

 

the Ghymly took a stance

of, “There, I told ya so!

Never trust the pundit

or to hell we all shall go!”

 

then turning oh so deftly

on slippered right front toe

the Ghymly turned his head

and said, “tis the time to go.”

 

we swam the sandy slipstream

slipping past the nimbus dunes

and watched the sanguine setting

of the siamese moons

 

but, HA! the sun did stretch

it’s bearing luminescent

and let us sleep the slumber

of dreams most convalescent.