(with regards to Lewis Carroll)
The krotah of the perth, me boy,
Show scrombulated mervy,
While those with malafluent ploy
Dursr nor to tack so scurvy.
So sail a xastoid flimsy aft
Wherefrom and whence it's spotted,
And surely shall the timby shaft
Make profits where it rotted.
The moral of the plurd, you see,
Is tychosquarely netted
To such a game as you or me
(Of chance), where blood is betted.
But still the breems of faun go on
Till mind perchance is vented,
For if the flora play the pawn,
The pristils be resented.
On krotah of the perth
The scrombuli must flourish...
Else, why the Q-bacilli birth
Should tabulate and nourish?
Nay, neigh, I say, it must not come
That tychosomae wrestle
With plurds and flims and timbysum
In ploying mort and pestle.
There is Moor munch, much more to rot
Than mere xastidic profit:
A game of mervous net is sought
To roll the faun's blood off it.
And if you breem to mind each day
With true krotitious moxey,
Then flora-matted chance shall prey
On pristils crushed by proxy
While tracks of timby profit breem
And bet their blood on Tychos
--But with great care, lest shaftoids seem
To floriate like psychos.
The final score is net to love,
Most pristilly peculiar,
Since even logic gives a shove
When boolean turns boolear.
- Richard Hacken