I sopped a bit of bintle in my ebolestic broth,
Though frettled at the farlow that the spintel fellow quoth,
"'Tis lomesy and bewretched whence we letcherants do roam,
The meanest apocarthy wouldn't dare our crembous home.
The alkaline distincture and the lepazani tare
Categorize and extincture proseletics do beware.
Curcudgeon though a phalanx might through frome and slaken dust,
The legion’s mallegoric crow would pitter in the crust."
I tarrowed as I heard the laird escape the fellow's jaw,
Proposity seized and I abbreaved the challenge he laid askraw.
"To haunt an eng toward the same ascriptions you've applayed
Has always been surriliquous, a passion that abade.
So if you chantly danter and consent to be my guide,
To morrow neath a curbid dawn, to Letchera we ride."
Thus two hands struck a crimping twee that eve in Coelath Bray.
We nestled then in giltered dreams as darkness crept astray.
To aft a fortnight of a sudden lingered rife with prints,
And there astride the edgelands skriggled out my frame a wince.
The beasts that bear our burdens tarrowed treadless at the frome;
We lighted of and sauntered in whence letcherants do roam.
“Beware,” said he, “the craddleswee.” And motioned to the dirt.
A flint of fang betrayed the same, a grithing beast alert.
“And fear,” he said, “the straffoged. ‘Twill nay but feed ye death.”
I spied it gripping fast a branch and twithered out a breath.
Of time diurnal or nocturnal no sign I apprehended,
‘Twas a fortnight out from Coelath Bray the sun had last ascended.
The lomesy dank enthronged us so, it leckered in my skin,
And nigh a corpse, with fainting pulse, the destert cough began.
I hearkened half-hearted ‘tween haken hacks to hear the howl of Harn,
The echos embearing a promise that my passing would be warm.
‘Twas all for vain, my eared strains, the yowl not once arose—
Least from the throat of Harn—but me, I howled whilst in remose.
Through hacks and twithering, porous yowls, bemoaned I every second,
Adjuring time to wander back then fail at being reckoned.
“O, currish day in Coelath Bray,” I was so wont to groan.
My sevid guide of Letchera would gander me and done,
“Ye fromey, stanched Gevatheran, ‘twas ye what forced me here!
Ye’ll swiftly feed the craddleswee, and dust shall be yer bier.
I’m brisling o’er with all yer fuss, so twain a choice I lay,
Ye kinter tight yer lips anon, or skraw straight back to Bray!”
So on we strode, our pace unlenting, driven by depravity,
Body ‘long with thoughts yon deeper into obfuscavity.
The bractle waste disumed my flesh and dribbled on my soul;
A baling knell in the hintermind, droned death at each a toll.
The anguish tore me straight and savage, hope was but remote,
I teetered off the brink and wailed a blade out of my throat.
A grisled hand clamped o’er my mouth, and harshly spat my guide,
“You’ve sentenced us, Gevatheran. We’ve functerally died!”
He conjured strength from realms unknown to Gevaths such as I,
And darting ‘tween great palls of gloom, defined the verb ‘to fly.’
I stippled off in idle chase, dread heelnips from from a foe,
To my request for motion rejured back my body, “No.”
My drasted yelp of agony belied our dire state,
‘Twas answered by the craddleswee and teeth preclined to sate.
So there I lay, my folly oozing, pining after home,
My final breath a twithered sigh with lips upon the frome.
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