‘Twas earl a morn
it zoofed a horn
and hunched the yarrit log,
bereft of sense
atop the fence,
squirched a darking bog.

My nerves were shearit
my ears were fearit
my eyes were tearit with slog,
as I trumped the floor
to me deaf neighbour’s door
to complain of the darking bog.

The hinge made squeakit
the door made creakit
two eyes squint peekit the nog
from a fly flecked face
as I fetched my case
re: the neeze from the darking bog.

His lips pursed ‘O’,
his eyes drooped low,
his head shook ‘No’, agog,
his finger shook,
‘twas my mistook,
he’d got no darking bog.

I wouldn’t budgit,
‘Yer mind’s gone fudgit,
yer cudgit’s lost a cog,
my eardrums blister
from the fogging fister
of the squark of yer darking bog! ’

Well, he scroomed a roar
& with a 2-be-4
tried to nobble me nog,
I ducked the swoosh,
and give him a push
back on the darking bog.

The mad bog yellit....
and screamed and fellit
his eyes popped jellit his nog,
a slurping gurgle
from the flattened furgle
then silence, the darking bog.

Ten years flewit,
the firbuds grewit,
the rain renewit the slog,
now only heard
was the burpèd slird,
no more the darking bog.