When tender frond the turlingdromes, and vestas whiffle from their homes, out in the misty magma moonlight, neeping in the afternoon, bright Lesmerelda flaunts her chubbles, great malinky double-bubbles. What a wald! I wadnae yield to see her famed delights revealed! But hush now son, and graze your kneesden. My poem's done. OH GOD NOT THE BEES-den?
Listen Now.
What's a year or so between fronds, eh? I trust you'll enjoy the exciting machinations of:
