Downtrodden with a dreadful case of the morbs,
I slithered my carcass on down to the alehouse.
Nanty narking and feeling truly afternoonified,
I decided there was nothing left to do but to
smother a parrot with cherished chuckaboos.
Before long, we were sufficiently arf arfanarf.
One shadowy old geyser—a real skilamalink—
under the guise of a regular paying gigglemug,
was in point of fact an off duty mutton shunter!
He lied in wait for us to shuffle less fancy out
onto the dirty boulevard becoming untoward.
Except we’re all well onto his skalamandering.
Fully facing the gooseberry-picker in question,
we harassed him for a light for our coffin nails,
promptly pulled his duster over his plum head,
batty-fanged him good, and left him sprawling.
When we finally regained our pins in the
hallway of Miss Mary’s boarding house,
she gave our toasted asses a right good
ear pounding for being conceited fopdoodles,
and banished us to our dos-kens without
so much as potato stew for a saint’s supper.
My missus called me a foozler for the ruckus
and my muddy daisy-roots. Especially since
she declared that never once did I leave the flat.
Apparently, like all my best adventures fueled
by the devil’s nectar, it was aboard fancy’s flight.
The hero of my own story, I’m keen on retelling.
Lest the chuckaboos discover me times three;
resolutely, completely and utterly balderdash.
