Inside a stone with no folks name
There hides a squishy-squash.
You won’t hear him moving, but
He’s in there, oh my gosh!
Three washes he may wish of you
Before his neb will shows.
A neb is like a snout to some, or
A nose to those who knows.
The first will be slowly whisperated,
For that’s how he doth roll.
He won’t ask for shiny clatter, but
Of the pickled fish’s soul.
The second, if you pass the first,
Will be sunged in high octaves.
So loud from such a tiny mouth
That bones will dance in graves.
The third that follows number two
Is not as crude as you might think.
Yet, it will take you round the bends
Of u’s and thems who stink.
After completerating those little tasks
Yours I’s and T’s will glow.
Then you will nose the squishy and
He will tell you so.
So, stride on forward, sonny Bob,
If you have a steady shake.
The time has come and tocks away
Don’t belate for goodies sake.