by Nick Gisburne
In a sondrillous city of wonder
Lived a crobber as old as the sea
He was wifty and thin
With palufrious skin
And his eyes were both buddled and fee
He was greatly aggravied by thunder
For it bimbled the bones of his head
Every wicketous crack
Turned his glummety black
And a violous, velvian red
As he puggled a platter of umlies
Dropping figgans of trum in his tea
In the bools of his face
Came the mentifal trace
Of a skimmerish plan-pot or three
So he runtled the relevant chumlies
With his audifilacious dream
And the council of stigs
In their poonery wigs
Gave their garnies a gawp at the scheme
In their vogal, the verdict was umbous
And they wardled the crobber with gold
“Shush the bodious boom
And repungle this room
And in yambit we’ll yay,” he was told
Now he jithered a competent crumbus
And a mantrial, expert in dreen
With the pick of the dooz
And a gilliker’s hooze
These were farlies, the best to be seen
And this banjumous gangle of teegers
Gave a wongerling, winifrous cheer
To the meddocks they strode
Down the Jibbernang Road
Singing tungles of fligger and beer
They arrived at the fum of the Veegas
And they chartered a cantifralite
Sulling soffish all day
Till the millig turned grey
Now they chungled together by night
In the land of the harbelling thunder
Now at last they would compo their quest
To the munkening hill
Marching dunka and dill
By the the nung time they crozzled its crest
Long they ganelled the majial wonder
With its snoddlecap wuffered in cloud
And together they crinned
Though the scroffeling wind
“You are mooky, but too ponting loud!”
From its vob-hole the hill whissened, “Sorry!”
And it promelled its tumpeter low
Clamming hoolious rahs
By the blickering stars
The old crobber and gangle did go
Now the thunder was tim as a torry
And it bimbled their bones nevermore
To their homes did they weef
And with presco relief
Soon they clummed to its shamadreen shore
They repungled and runtled the chumlies
Yumming winnerish tales to the stigs
And the city did yay
In its yambital way
With a fellicanester of figs
Now at home, as he puggled his umlies
Soon the crobber bambungled with glee
“If your plan-pot be right
Always wringle the fight”
And with figgans of trum in his tea
Dreamed of crobbers far older than he
The trick with a nonsense poem is this: strike just the right balance between nonsense and poem. If you get a vague sense of what is happening here, that’s probably all you can hope for!
Second trick: turn off the spelling checker!
