I wrote this many years back as a tribute to Lewis Caroll whose nonsense always made sense to me.
A KNIGHTS TALE
by David B. Klampert copyright 2007
Blumbercharge bent his brittle trudge while seeped in Sollittilien Groob.
He bent it back, and so it flew beyond the loftering heights of Hue.
Beyond the loftering heights of Hue.
It landed deep in Drasmadine and toppled crops of cowlifloor.
It left a hole eight prats and four which formed a pool named Ballipour
It formed a pool named Ballipour.
In Ballipour arose a slauf whose eyes closed queerly as he roared.
His fearful frohd was underscored with qualindere and blundiford.
With qualindere and blundiford.
Such gems of choice, such true choice gems
on slaufs coarse frohd, his outer skin,
did underneath the gems run thin, exposing soft, clear unterfin.
Exposing soft, clear unterfin.
And so came he, the naigle knight, to kill a slauf and earn his bride,
his strappled spear beside him tied to saddle sporn of trundlehide.
To saddle sporn of trundlehide.
He camped beside dark Ballipour and waited there throughout the night.
Then dawn arose in plentry light with still no slauf this Knight to fight.
With still no slauf this Knight to fight.
And days frode on to months, then years,
while time’s march touched our toilient knight.
His quest still firm, but not his sight, caused him to miss his slauf in flight.
Caused him to miss his slauf in flight.
The slauf returned in latter yayes and found the knight beyond deaths door.
Face down fell he to rise no more, he came to rest in Ballipour.
He came to rest on said pools floor.
Search not my son for slaufs to fight. Seek not to earn or prove your love.
For slaufs can fly just like a dove, but knights cannot. Good night my love.
No knights cannot, good knight, my love.
