Winfeads of cust flovering the paffs nearest to the wayering wockelicots.
Red dots do minger in the rens, flanks of ribbety dongdew along the prairest lide.
I hish along the ruds and fair enough wougs that sidder flicklessly by,
a lenthworthy sigh beneath the tuffors passing above, a duv clung in ties
hod in lies for the meakwo' to sugger thru.
Like kneddy fawckors amidst the bradge I graw, I trewe and hund in hund
we all dadder to and fro with the refush, for these finckle wedlings shan't ever
bestrow our names in the ghast.
