“Flippetyripples dapplety-giblets!”
cried the elf-like thing.
Pouncing on his footstool,
he was dressed fit for a king.
His sniveling little attendant
was harshly reprimanded:
“Dimplety-smackers… chalooga!”
he so eloquently demanded.
“Snabblety-scrabble, applety-pee!”
he examined it loudly,
the chain of gold that wrapped around his pudgy fingers three.

This would never do, it was much too yellow
is what he seemed to say, what I heard him bellow.
And deep within his deep blue eyes
I sensed a bluish dissatisfaction rise.
A glint of a look that seemed like it said
“Bring me my wife, and off with her head!”
For she had been spotted by the Chudaluk brook
with the caddest of cads, the deplorable Rook.
And that could only mean one of three things:
that she sings when it’s hot, or it’s hot when she sings
or lastly, unfortunately, that it’s not singing at all,
that noise which echoed up through stairways and halls
which made it no secret, the shameful Rook’s gall.
Though the last time I saw him, he stood not so tall
for on the king’s mantle, in a jar, are his balls.

King Scrumpletydumples quite nearly was dressed
as he fastened a gold chicken medallion to his breast.
He wrapped his squat legs in chiffon and gauze
and dipped in royal rose water his royal red shnozz.
For today was the day he would take a new wife,
a woman so faithful with which to spend his life,
or at least that’s what we figured he meant when he said
“Frognatz rulpumba! Tolingle! Shub-bed!”
Hey, your guess is our guess, it’s the Kingdom’s anguish
that the royal red king speaks an unfathomable language.