I stare at the swaying tree,
Rooted deep beneath the crusty erf,
Now barren and empty.
Like the tittynope of dignity I cling to,
It waits agog the susurrus of hope.
If time ran widdershins,
Could this lonesome evergreen,
Return to a mere ratoon,
Keen to xertz nutrients from the fresh sod?
Or must this love fool mumpsimus,
Remain in zugzwang and suffer undeniable limerence?
The tide of nudiustertian - a fading image,
I long for you zenzizenzizenzic,
Exceeding possible comprehension.
I could write our story upon this quire,
But I confess myself a flibbertigibbet,
Well versed in gobbledygook that would bumfuzzle
All that read the verses of my love drunk wamble.
Yclept the callipygian in my dreams,
Now cast in exclaims of “Gardyloo!” and sorrow,
That discombobulate my already cattywampus mind,
I reach to you amid the kerfuffle and malarkey.
Alas, you must skedaddle as I am left,
Tattered and torn post-defenestration,
Pawn to the jiggery-pokery of the pettifogger,
An ulotrichous, sialoquent, ultracrepidarian, snollygoster.
A distant Doodle Sack sounds it’s cacophony,
The tree remains swaying,
Unperturbed by the hullabaloo.
I rise with tremendous lollygag,
Aloof in pandiculation,
Overcome with the collywobbles.
The oxter of time unyielding,
Ready to impignorate the scraps of love.
