The twattling was fierce,
She was called many a word:
The one that stuck was slugabed,
But whose fault was it
That she tossed and turned all night long
In the mist of a uthceare,
When the morning came
The only reasonable thing to do
Was to perendinate
For she suffered from dysania
She could only fudgel around
Thinking about some cacoethes
After all she could use
Her callipygian shape to profit,
It would be worth all the ultracrepidarian crap
That as a snollygoster in that kakystocracy
Was an easy target for all the grumbletonians
It felt she was continuously
In a philogrobilized haze
While her only desire was to grufeling
Gorging herself in albiguration
For lanspresado to groke !
Lucette C. Bailliet
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