By Chris Churchill

When dusky and musky

Thresholdies do swain,

Two blombers all gwishy

To thromble their vein.

Booblers to dingle

Wonglers to press

Danglers all fancy

And dancy. A mess.

The bloushers and cheeks

All swolling with juice.

The pointer to oinkers

Squooshy the dooce!

Rhythm concreasing

Mubbly cupescence.

Til busily pricklier

They goes softly pleasant.

Staring to heaven

Spotty and darkness.

The splooshy unificity

Turns complex apartments.

To turn clonks and floobers

All flopaway distant.

Is we a single

Or isn’t they isn’t?

Who’s liveage is this one?

I’m fuzzy with brainzzizz

Let’s regunk the splooshy

No. Break all the splooshage.

In future, when feathers of hornexical thoughts

Reminds you the gooshwooshy

Stinkgoggly spot.

And who is this keepitz of your hiphuzzah sneezes?

To stick to the goisters with morply dank breezes.

“I heard snizzy and brunty got Britney and Lou.

Now Loubree the family of several less two.”

But some of us hunters of shlizzos inside.

Drib our own drazzle when none else is besides.

‘‘Tis better the flunkle all squizzy alone

Than rockle the cockle in a broken home.

So better to wizzle, jamtangly and strong.

Then woozle your floozle til it’s quink is too long.