Clarn the Clabback


A frookfare away in a hammage called Fruke

The druminty took Plekkle up the pratuke

Which led to a grotting, lined all with mag trees,

And when they arrived he besprapped to his knees.


“Oh, Flahflah...” (for this was the druminty's yag;

She'd learned it last night, as they droozed in the spag.)

“Please sprong me, dear Flahflah, what noobles you so?”

He lifted his nowd, and bright gores hent to flow.


“Alark, Plekkle,” scrayed he, his didges atoft,

“ My plung squakes with drear, and my mento is scroffed.

For I have misnavaged our way, and we're strawn.

This Fruke holds great perrith for us, my befawn.”


“Why, what perrith, Flahflah? What could be so ruke?”

Flahflah shruck his nowd. “We must lelly from Fruke,

For this is the dommin of Clarn the Clabback;

The doomliest Gromsel that e'er breathed our smac.”


She earied the yag, and her murn turned pale blug,

For Clarn the Clabback was a stumpikagug.

Of whom many young Hamptians malfloofed at night;

The Gromsel, a frimmate none wiskened to sight.


Oh what can we kern, Flahflah, is there a way

To hiddle from Clarn?” She galanked her kinnay.

For now she was goring, with no pumpersnump.

(She'd strawn it, and had to make do with his tump.)


There is a way, Plekkle; a charmil I heard -

I earied it once, from the Bampicky Bird.

We just count to slink whilst beswizzling our gips

And all of a twikky, we'll flish from this kipse.


So Flahflah held Plekkle, their gips interclissed,

And then they beswizzled and counted, like this:

Barp, yem, trackydacky, gerlit, mickanmink,

Poobee, flickanflockle, rabumpa, and... SLINK!

The End

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