Hinger roared: Penk!
Where is my rosy choisir?
When the Nargzif gets all buttery,
A wolf bumps out!
Penk looked up
from his hands where
he had be staring
for some time:
Cluinim sibh...
Bhí sibh ansin..
Penk was proud, but
Small. He wore a polished
Coral torque around his neck
The color of a pomegranate.
Hinger roared: Penk!
Tele-täysi comma daisy!
When I nifgarz all is
Cinnamon and vinegar!
Penk smiled.
In his building was allied
All the multiverities of exchange
And blithering in the formless
Trope of the qong, his womb
Which was finally becoming more
Visible, risible, and aliterete.
Hinger roared: Penk!
A lousewort's worthy impergola
Razes the Nargzif e'en as I peak!
Ghassaq! Irrbaggin! Phizcul!
Penk mused: Hawzag and murthoni,
The way to Viranarr is paved with
Touchable syllables for the mutofin.
When I swim through the labyrinthine
Ballast sponges of our heavy gith-soul,
My heart's boat is overcome by muscle.
The heart is enlarged, just as the hearth
Is enraged. Green manta rays shield our vision
From the holy joy which dispares
In the honeycomb divan of Hintercorrente.
Hinger shuffled silently atop
Wet bobbing sponge stones
Feeling blindly for the base
Of the great mechanical obdurlith.
