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.
Libby Weber 
Bell won!
Thanks! I figured if I’m going to have one of those days when it’s better that I don’t talk, I should at least get a silly sonnet out of it 😀
er….dell won. You are the choonerism spamp 🙂
*cracks up* I figured you’d been autocorrected (cortoaurrected? sounds like a muscle spasm).
Do you mean Spoonerism?
Not in the context of a Soonerism Sponnet.