When due to lengthy days my grain brows tired
My langurative figuage can get skewed,
As if my cerebellum is woss-crired,
Producing oddities that round quite sude.
These stunning cunts of speech make consequent
That I am comprecult to diffihend.
When only I can tell just mutt is whent,
I’m tempted to let dilences sescend.
But on such days when my toor pongue is tied,
Frustration to the weastern ind I fling,
I brake a teath and cease myself to chide,
Remembering, “Don’t pet the sweaty things.”
When spibberish I gout, patience I plea,
I lake mess sense when I speak normally.