poem: he squat in the carbuncle



Talking nonsense.

My writing group, as was usual, asked us to put together a nonsense piece of work (more nonsense than usual). Here is mine...

He squat in the carbuncle, onning and gonning with clumbers and - whoops, isolation!

Here comes the summification of mumbifications humms.

"Plate times cream pie," she flashed.

"Devon tea stew," he burbled.

Numbersary. Wrong. Wrong. Clapperboards and bickerdoodles strong wrong.

"Queen curtails," she snookered.

"Trenkenty-flue," the little front-starred toy shed.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Going for a billabong.

And, even worse with bickering, vickering, liqourice black black tongue.


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