The Qwerty Bustard Poem by Red O'Mara

Erstime, ere bards nor wondering Joyceters
did glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
Sir Slip The Most of Figleefmoistners,
was undangled…and his sling unslung.

‘Twas on the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard,
with her chicklet Hoplet never wordling,
that the hunkerflesh-fed Qwerty Bustard,
marked well by dark, was ever curdling.

Sir Slip, slopupped and grammar-morphing,
from molten steam one dawnless dread,
swear-foring most and all ef-alling,
did cloyp the Hoplet's fergeld head.

The Bustard drubbed Slip: 'Duncummayler!
To flump the sweet lad's yearnsome tress!
Bludaddled knight! Brain-drained wassailler! '
(the Hoplet mock-loomed nasalfless)

'Dogbudderwuks! ' Slip rudblud obscented,
'That nert, that frot, that wibeljankie,
swombodled, globbed, or sexcremented
God don't know notwot, in me hankie.'

The discompuncted Bustard illglimned.
Then, ventforthing with a scroatful shout,
she snouted, all redblynd and goredimned,
to clip Sir Slip a gobfilt clout.

Bowelwilderd, and fear-smeared arear
and, awefulled of trans-plonker stretch,
Slip, leaping to escape his nadir,
unware… did bare….. his hunkerflesh….

Hencetime, now bards and wondering Joyceters
do glybb their gobs with glanjous tongue,
durst ne'er no Sir nor Figleefmoistner,
no fergeld Hoplet to one bung.