Globules of Scotch mist
When interfaced with my sass
Mewled its spiel caulked with woebegone
then rolled down my sauce
and bathed the terra firma with tears of boo-hooed

The fronds of the Riga pine
Had wilted
And wafted in the puff
Which drifted by my lughole
Delineating its anecdote occluded with lament

The bawl of the cordillera
And the bleat of the snippets of the foregone mesa of smelted boulders
Gave its opine of chagrin
For being used cataclysmically without its least paramount
Which ushered it to its defunct

The whine of the gossamer
Of the nonagenarian’s domicile
Articulated the whole of escapade
Which unveiled the quietus of Olivia
Who was scrupulous and gave ethical behest to the falconers of Tom of the Asheras
And was soul mate of Oliver.

Ergo, every ou and lass
Apt to barricade yourself from these
Unchancy critters who can liquidate you
For their self indulgence and serving solace to self
and of course you miscreants who have perpetually
transgressed your moral curtailments
would anon be chastised by demiurge
so its par excellence to mutate yourself as bona fide seraph of numen.