It was a mackerel sky and the dumbledore had more rumgumption than to indulge in clishmaclaver with the tattie-bogle, who was little more than a doddypoll, not knowing a B from a bull’s foot. There was a collieshangie at the bottom of the dell as the carnaptious moudiewort ran ramgunshoch over the nipperty-tipperty forky-tail, but it was the pinguitude of the roscid, suaveolent quaking-grass that stood rutilent against the refulgent weather gleam above the grufted vug, that drew her eye. A glimmer-gowk flew along the crinkum-crankum dell, its ferntickles sparkling in the celestial flouresence. The moudiewort, wamble-cropped, desisted to snuzzle and wapper-eyed reflected on the wanchancy of the occasion as he was obumbrated on the floor below. But this was no Tom Tiddler’s ground for the glimmer-gowk, whose beak was as capable of squabash as the pilliwinks so beloved by the humgruffin, whose lack of batology caused him to bring a hog to a fine market and allowed the moudiewort to scunge away. In this way he was flimped of his meal, and the moudiewort pleased not to have the black ox tread on his foot.
Meanwhile the hand of the wag-at the wa’ coming into syzygy initiated a period of fantoosh tintinnabulation, which left the people of the village mirligoes and of humdudgeon. A blatherskite appeared with his whigmaleerie talking all manner of clamjamphrie. He was as ready to cry stinking fish as roast meat. Soon after him on his dandy-horse followed the gerund-grinder, who was incompossible with the grammaticaster, who thought him nothing more than a slip-string and often accused him of being unguligrade. He was always ready, He was always ready to whip the cat, He was always ready to whip the cat, whilst the other always had a rod in the pickle to give him his kale through the reek. It was no kilfud-yoking when they were around, as they both thought they had the sockdologer and would prove to be the better deipnosophist, but in the end they both ultracrepidated. It was only a tosticated gawpus who would ride bodkin with them, who always had a crow to pluck with, it was far better to give leg bail, but not so as to outrun the constable, as to dree one’s weird with these two, as you would when you heard ‘Gardyloo!’ ring out above your head. To leave the management of the village to them would be kakistocracy and would require a great deal of nepenthe.
The village being located in the dell, relied on the fishyback for supplies, with the inevitable mallemaroking seamen that it introduced from time to time. The sculduddry of these bed-swervers so discombobulated our kakistocrats that they quite took the mulligrubs. They would pad the hoof together, one exclaiming that the only thing to do with them was omoplatoscopy to see how their bones crack in the fire, whilst the other muttered ‘taghairm’, meaning to wrap them up and drown them there. In the end, in a remarkable display of leiotrichy they agreed the only thing to do was to exact the buttock-mail from them.
The baker though was a two pot screamer who was known to frequently broach the admiral to get his snootful. Mops and brooms were never enough for him with the result that often when he was sotious the bishop put his foot in it. And though his work glooped well at the first it failed to reach paneity. His oven’s were like the mutton-thumper’s inkroom after Ralph had visited him. He was ruled by the bitch goddess, and though his wife were a horse-godmother, the grey mare was the better horse. The only good you could say of him was he was no hen-hussy.
Now it was said of the fizgig that after the thunder-plump, when the merry dancers were visible, she had seen urchin shows. The bull-beggar so it seemed wore a rather spoffish scroddled coat, and often a wigs on the green could be seen between him and the shellycoat. Lob-lie-by-the fire was however more often to be found aestivating than about his business: aestivating well mark you!
Now the burn the wind was a different, a different kettle of fish. He was no nipcheese, even though you would not even find an angel’s share in his house. He was the only one the village trusted not to lose the presentment of Englishry should they ever have needed it. The presentment of Englishry! His ability to burn the water ensured that no genethliac day passed without a goluptious feast, without a goluptious feast. Now his wife was no mean thumper. His wife was no mean thumper. Her callipygous pulchritude caused others to become beblubbered in the contemplation thereof, and, as it were, to deliquesce and yump away.
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