Sprangled out in blades of matter,
So the Star of Izar shifts.
Preceptor of malefic torment
Scattering coarse pandemian gifts.
Through the astral fields he bruises,
Wanhope is his game.
Tatterdemalion his bearing,
Sesquipedalian his name.
Beware you passing dim gongoozler,
Scelestic clapperclaws draw near.
There’s mortal danger should you tarry
He’ll fustigate your Edward Lear.
A nonsense poem of some sense, which materialised within the cloud after coming across the wonderous word tatterdemalion.
I was once a contestant on “Who wants to be a tatterdemalionaire”
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Ooooahahahahahahaoooh (a small groan with a large laugh sewn into the seams).
You should be on the stage sir.
Possibly in stocks.