Abednego Waluffin

by Nick Gisburne

---

Abednego Waluffin scratched his bum
And wondered where he came from, what he was.
Adopted by a puffin as a mum,
His father was a walrus, just because.
“I need to find my roots, my clan, my kin,
Whatever bird or beast begat my birth.”
Befuddled by the mystery within,
He sought the source, to find what he was worth.
He trudged, and then he plodded, stomped and slogged,
Far longer than a string can ever stretch,
But older now, his creaky mind befogged,
He cursed himself, a rude, ungrateful wretch.
    Lamenting what he squandered, what he had,
    He shuffled home to hug his mum and dad.

Epic as F

by Nick Gisburne

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In the bleakest bark of night
Painted by an elder star
Long there marched a wiping light
Draining from the deepest bar

Rising to a swarming swell
Velvets hailed a winter’s cake
On the shoulders of its shell
Curled the omens of the snake

As the lanterns blamed the sea
Limping danger caught their cry
Come to pour its golden knee
On their selfish butterfly

Currying with eager scrolls
All was foggy, all was game
Yet their grey, emphatic rolls
Could not flush the feeling flame

Wretched inks were crudely penned
Sullen bruisings witched the room
Shattered stripes no charm could mend
Peelings of a stolen bloom

And the membrane of the spheres
Rose beyond the winsome dew
Thence, the tumbled volunteers
Took their nails to strike anew

Linking through the scarlet silk
Vexed, with kettled charms they cleaved
Long before the dawn was milk
Pardoned feathers all received

Pressed to glean with crooked eye
In the parlous pit of dust
Garlands from a weeded sky
Let the splintered winds combust

Now the flaxen maidens clawed
Calling supple ants of lead
Much was laddered, much restored
Verdant dreams fell overhead

Castles, filtered, flagged and sealed
Thinning as a sister’s face
In the belt, their spins concealed
Pains, pulled numb from steaming space

Fragrant shimmers stopped their words
Seeking truth with valid coin
Nudging through the shrunken curds
Nothing balanced would it join

Fractured makings skived with ash
Soon their baleful candles graced
But the leakings burned as mash
Begging, failing, charred and chaste

From the larder’s pith and light
Stealthy as a moonish crow
Finding silence blushed with blight
Tepid pressings walked in glow

Each aglitter in its clay
Much was primed to salt their souls
Loathsome triggers leached away
Fallen to the bended holes

Fulsome sendings cracked their strings
Shadows rubbed the vowelled stake
Sombre shavings, templed kings
Choked a scaly, scented lake

Now the silvers stitched their nest
Orphans beat a sceptred fist
Ribbons, exiled, bled the quest
Striding through a stubbled mist

So it clung, the sneering source
Leathered engines, plagued with steel
Shards of resurrected force
Drove the evanescent wheel

Born of rage and boiling flow
None could drum its peerless kind
Ever heaving, scalding, slow
Onward lumped its cunning grind

Yet the martyrs of the plate
Dipped their zeal with starch and storm
Bridging autumn’s throw to fate
Charged their hearts to meet its form

Long they bulled its dappled beams
Thirsting for the bait of breach
And at last their staunch regimes
Proved the curtain of its reach

Carping walls once closed to flaw
Spread their keys with swollen cast
Tongues proclaimed abiding thaw
From the bane once overcast

Think ye not to grieve with woe
Languid stigmas dogged with darn
Let their legend burst and blow
Sworn and famed in epic yarn

---

For this self-inflicted challenge I decided to write a nonsense poem, in the style of an epic legend. However, I could not use invented words, and it was essential to retain a sense that something is happening at all times. It would be fairly easy to write multiple lines filled with any old random words, but in doing that you would end up with a pile of gibberish. The balance of this poem was much more difficult to achieve than I anticipated!

The Crobber as Old as the Sea

by Nick Gisburne

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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!

The Beeble of Crispy Dash Night

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

by Nick Gisburne

---

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!”

---

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

---

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

---

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