The Scathing Nausic Lingle – the complete version
I’ve posted parts of this poem before, but finally decided I should finish it.
With extreme apologies to Lewis Carroll – I give you the completed poem of the scathing nausic lingle.
Punce a time whilst scambling
along a wendling way,
warbling nausic lingles
To parse the rhyme of day
I slivvied in a squishel
emprattling my pride
while splatlets on my nattiness
bumbled up my stride.
My peekers angled sighways
“Who bungled me?” I bay.
“Who skid this risky squishel
along my wendling way?”
T’was sillig for a second
then a brachy voice interth
“Your nausic lingles scathe me
gerroff and wendle firth.”
“Who peaches me” I gargle
“Who pratts my nausic lingles?”
but never nother slight is slewn
Twixt bramblers and bingles.
I finched the bramblers all aside,
for days I piltched the bingles
to cassigate the brachy voice
that peached my nausic lingles
“I’ll show him scathing” I decarte
“I’ll nimby up his yard”
“No scarcher slyths my warbling
and sconders very far.”
And gleering down I peer it
a simble squelchy splucker
splatted from the paddy paws
of a squelchy squishel hucker
“Come firth, you bonk” I gargled
“Come, peach me in the jowl.”
But all that driffs the sillig
is a far to farther growl.
I girt my sissels joculent
I wendle on my way
“I’ll find you, hucker mucker,
If it takes all bastic day!”
That was many gleams ago
And now my paddies ache
with every ratched bumble
they wendlingly make.
Forjesting all my prosted tarsks
I’ve spent my days bemooned
glimpsing for the mucker till,
Unsquiffed and all untuned,
I cast upon the grasting sand
and tumbly to my nees
I keen the glint of splishy warbs
and of a subley see
That since I took to wendling
abarft brambler and bingle
I’d not worbled one slight note
Of my lubbly nausic lingle.
The hucker mucker long was gone
And I was daft and loneing
And lost my lingle to empty pratts
And pridding self bemoaning.
But the Hucker Mucker far ablout
Had scathings of his own
For the nausic lingle lingers now
Inside his ratching dome
Wormed in his unconsequents
It scathes him every day
And leaves him parching greevly
Mungst the squishels long the way.
Linda Studley 