Copyright 1998, Robert E. Dalton

  
                               
Plinkyplunkett played profusely 
On his gittlytar. 
But the racketusic didn’t sound 
Like it could go too far. 
So he thoughtelized intensigately 
How to gain some fame. 
He constiputed really hard, 
And then the answer came. 
His headlythumper told him how 
To get it all togither... 
He’d stackly up his junkleypile 
And build himself a zither. 
He did! He did! He built the thing! 
He made it out of leather, 
And plumerized its keyleeboard 
With one big Orsnich feather. 
He made a plastic plectrum 
Just so’s he could twang it, 
And then a probleygatum riz... 
How would Plinky strang it? 
The thing exonilated lovely beautication 
But it didn’t have no twangers 
To make a loud ovation. 
He yanked a fuzzy from his pate, 
But it was shortelated. 
He even tried a porklypine, 
But it was overrated. 
And then he spied a horselytrotter 
Hoofin’ through the glen          
With th’ fuzzies on its rearward 
Flappin’ in th’ wind. 
He hopped upon his wheelybiker, 
Threw his foots in gear, 
An’ took off like a gunlyshoot 
Toward that hoofer’s rear. 
His wheelybiker went so fast  
The pushlypedals blurred, 
And the sprockychain was hummin’ 
Like a happly hummly bird. 
The Horseytrotters wagger was wavin’ out behind, 
But just as Plinky grabbed it, 
Th’ horsely lost its mind!
Plinkyplunkett couldn’t see a solitudely bit! 
His eyelyballs were totalately covered up with it. 
That horselytrotter must’ve eaten  
Thirdly tons of hay, 
And Plinkyplunkett never thought 
He’d leave the world this way. 
But off a cliff he flutterated, 
Flyin’ like a bird, 
An’ never even got th’ chance 
T’ say a final word. 
He hit th’ bottom like a bomb 
With one horrentious “Splatt!” 
An’ now th’ smelly place is known 
As Plinkyplunkett’s flat. 
So let this be a lesslun... 
If you plink a gittlytar, 
Be sastified with what you got, 
Don’t try to get too far. 
Remember Plinkyplunkett 
An’ his horselytrotter race, 
An’ you’ll never have to worry 
‘Bout a hay-bale in th’ face.

Plops! 

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