Once upon a time, in the shimmering twangle grime,
A ferid of futrid splashed gaily through the brine,
So wondrous were his clothes, so sleek and so fine,
So brilliant were the strange materials that did so weave and intwine.
His voice a shrill timbre, his shangles mounted well,
Some say his vocal chords could chime like a bell,
But this sad day, departing the brine, Sir imperdell,
of Shinglemell, fell victim to a crime.
The most horrific thing happened, so didst it at dawn,
Some faint cruddlewodgers sung, some others did yawn,
But until this day, no one could tell what might have occurred,
Had Sir Imperdell of Shinglemell not turned into a bird.