poem

"Sequestra pondrionkl
stronjoadl peendly bun.
Throntly throntly anthrax cure
bejarndl." . . In the sun.

"All unji bog und dieldrin drip."
The flip flop floopies slide and slip!
"Arongl grang begargl bang."
And then they lost their grip.

All down the stream they went until
They couldn't drown another inch.
I thought it was too late to help,
but still I went and fetched a winch.

We wimched them up, we winched them down,
but floopies are quite hard to save.
All drips and dropsy on the bank,
the situation looked quite grave.

Just then, up came a soggly bron,
all barnjafed and winkled too,
who said,"when floopies get too wet
I know what you must do.

Get out your old banjanophone,
prime it well and tune it sharp.
They can't lie still to sounds like that
unless they're eating carp."

There were no carp there to be seen,
just seven froopies, fropped and froggled.
We banjaphoned for several hours,
and then out minds just boggled.

The froopies, poisoned, drowned and flat
all changed to multi-coloured grangles.
They talked of this, they spoke of that -
we couldn't understand their angles.

Yes. Where each froopie once had been,
now stood a beauteous grangle-bender,
with eyes like fish and furry tale,
and fingers like a piano mender.

Now suddenly alive and well
they grabbed all the banjanophones.
They practised hard, and just as well.
We tried to listen without groans.

For grangles playing banjanophones
are not a pretty sight to hear.
They played us thankyou notes. We bowed,
and prominsed to come back . . next year!

The moral of this story is
if you should start to write a song,
be sure you know the story line,
or it may go on fat too long!!