The morning started cold
as a titche’s wit,
as funny as shat tounds
(the dog did it on the trail),
so they undled bup
for their jog along
tocal lrails,
but wart-pay through,
the sun came out of
Dive Fay’s hiding,
and Fay dove down on
them with a fierce
bummer’s slast.
They felt all
biscomdobulated
in all those clothes,
so they stripped to their
sirthday buits
and in a flash,
they crossed the
linish fine
and headed home,
or, to be consistent,
swapping lirst fetters,
headed home.
I’m all in favor of titches wit … and, of course, lirst fetters, too. What fun … or fat whun