The Beeble of Crispy Dash Night

The Beeble of Crispy Dash Night
A Poe Pum in Four Spits

by Nick Gisburne

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Spit the Mould

Wilt thou listen, my screebers? Give hark to my tale
To the Beeble of Crispy Dash Night
Though thy bibs be full glutted, nogs wizzled with ale
Fuddle in, slink the door, grim the light

In the tweeny of Nazbeth there wimpled a maid
Thence to Maisy an Ungle did tweeve
With a bazzle of brillums and glitting cascade
Quoth the Ungle, “Sweet Maisy, believe!”

“I have swung hence from Higgins, beyond the poo sky
And bring missage and bruise from Lord Spod
Thou shalt bear him a babbums, Spod’s gravy, his fry”
And he sniggled her miff with his rod

Maisy’s hubbling, young Slow-Deaf, nebbed aught of this plan
Though his peeps spied the spand in her girth
So on quinkies they jungled to Bethum-ham-han
To the sween of the bab’s Viking birth

’Twas a nox like no other, full bust were the nins
For their squint they could find not a jume
Till a rundly old keepman gave solace and grins
In the stubble, where mookers did loom

Slow-Deaf’s gaze was sore fuzzled as Maisy did squat
With the babbums the Ungle foretold
From betwixt her spread neggies the Younger Spod shot
Leaving mama’s bare miff wincey cold

So she papped him with widdling and gayed him in clay
’gainst the fristious, frozbinum night
Then anuncified longly (the keepman did say)
“Here is Cheeses! What cradish delight!”

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Spit the Bacon Scent

’Top the hillard o’er Bethum lay sheppies at seat
Heaping switch on their barlums all eve
While the lums gave good nibble, the sheps nitched their feet
For the fristing kite gave them much grieve

As they tivelled their hookies and siddered the sky
In the carp nest flished dizzy bee light
And with clangitass grunder, from Higgins on high
Zimmed the Ungle of Spod into sight

“Shigger not,” quoth the Ungle, full nebbing their drib
But they shiggered anon for a tweam
“Tip thy lugs,” quoth again he, “and ganter thy nib”
“Hear the noz that I fling all abeam”

And he spooked them of Cheeses, of Maisy, and Spod
For the gravy was Ding among Den
When the sheppies paid quizit, the bab was a-nod
For the timmo showed leet (almost ten)

“’Tis the gravy,” they chummered “All Hamish the Ding!”
And they booed on their tummocks and whupped
Unto Maisy their hankus was dacious and fring
For the Viking that no hum had tupped

Lo, the sheppies were jibbous, for this was their Sav
Come to nurkle each swimmer with paste
And for Cheeses their woodchip was lampus and clav
Taking noz to their hillard in haste

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Spit the Worms

Now a spinkly new brillum grew daz in the skee
Glimpsed by yeastily mung, rolled and pies
Thrice-fold beardical duffoes cast peeps to the pea
And did stromigonomicalise

In their scrillies was writtled a predicatil
And its tulligal tex gave exhort
“Let us chum,” sang the duffoes, “and follow the brill”
“’Tis a sign of tremungulous port”

And to fingle this kinko, the wisdial mung
Took a jungle Joslamapam way
To the cratto of Beebod, its roolious kung
Whose great luggies tipped all they did say

“We be strommers, O Beebod, in chaz of yon brill”
“Seeking aud with bo-babbums anew”
“Dost the gravy lie hither? Give shuft if thou will”
“Haze the tod - flymow Ding, lawnmow Doo!”

But to Beebod their rattle gave grumious frum
And to lucify chowder he furred
“I would trot to this bo-ding. Whence backard ye come”
“Bring me geopositional word”

Soon the mung rivved in Bethum, most hulio night
Yet confangoed they fingled him still
Till the brillum, full dazzy, the stubble did light
And to Cheeses the duffoes did nil

Bringing spits full and splendif, trogged long on their germs
Each a primmertag, spensivo tring
’Twas three spits they did offal: mould, bacon scent, worms
And in jummilai woodchip did sing

On the retinal jungle the mung paid no stop
And to Beebod spock nutterly void
’Twas the Ungle gave tippy of Beebod’s vile chop
To the neddles of Beth’s gravy boid

That the bab was in piddle young Slow-Deaf took drum
Quick to Egg-Wiped the fammo did traip
Now the Nitty Vit Stirry falls ’culiar mum
Not a soss can we grimble or scrape

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Spit the Beeble

’Tis a Beeble, good screebers, a mitty, no more
For this end of a leg is full fict
Cummerbund to thy sancty, bliv not this be jen
Let not relly-ginitis afflict

Mayhap aye there be Maisy, and Slow-Deaf the hub
And a babbums - such gravies be norm
But from Higgins, an Ungle, some wingular chub?
How canst bliv in this follious gorm?

Banish thunks to its truvy, prof podger none zist
Unto Viking a fant was ne’er gat
Though her miff be well tiggled, the cert lay atwist
Nay, not Spod, atop Slow-Deaf yon sat

Not a maid but a mussy, not Viking but vix
Yea, in shamulous trot they did germ
Venting hushifal sea crows a Beeble might fix
And discrepiant babbums confirm

And the sheppies? Thrice addled, a skunkifo crew
With cold mungo saw gain to the plan
Further witterling dunkos, apaid and abrew
Stood as duffoes and stubble keepman

And to Beebod? No scrillies give writtle to this
Though in hissy was writtified much
Yet the Beeble tripped speedo, from kisser to kiss
And now duncified churlkins bliv such

Be ye not such a churlkin, ’nounce fully the yarm
Cast all peeps to the mooker-dun sight
Of the nonsico mitty, most twaddifal barm
In the Beeble of Crispy Dash Night