Nooping the rinkum corn,
And graper and graper, alas! grew he,
And cursed the day he was born.
His crute was clum and his voice was rum,
As curiously thus sang he,
“Oh, would I’d been rammed and eternally clammed
Ere I perched on this whango tree.”
Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,
As sharp as a nootie’s bill,
And it stuck in the woggly bird’s umptum lorn
And weepadge, the smart did thrill.
He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn’t the worst,
For he couldn’t at all get free,
And he cried, “I am gammed, and injustibly nammed
On the luggardly whango tree.”
And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,
Nor no guggledom in his nest;
He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,
And his grabbles give him no rest;
He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,
And nothing to nob has he,
As he chirps, “I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,
In this cuggerdom whango tree.”
Our blog is not yet a year old, but this is our one hundredth post, so we celebrate a very un-frabjous day!
On such a milestone, we thank our viewers, whether we know you or not, and say “Happy un-frabjous day!” to yourself. So thank you, and we hope you’ll continue to read with us for the next hundred posts and beyond! Eat a piece of cake with us in celebration of this blog.