The Swigon and Pootling

The sour Swigon sat silently,

Awaiting his morning tea.

Enjoying the sounds of Pootling,

His baby anamopalee,

But as the assam aroma ascended,

Drifting down the doodolowdum,

And arching across the awaking arapod,

Pootling raised his thumb.

“O’ Master Pootling that is my chai!”

The Swigon said saraciously,

But baby Pootling growled aloud

“What wicktactical worry waits with one

Who holds back tea just for fun!”

Pootling expalated to all extent,

His craulatern even grazed the ceiling!

But The Swigon knows the destiny of all,

As he is highly and wiley learngated,

And with that dear Pootling was already fated!

The Swigon pulled out a nopoly dugot,

Pootling pounced and gulped it down.

With a thundermonious crash,

Dear pootling died with just a frown.

The Swigon now sat sourly,

And shed a linear tear,

As tea is good but never great,

When without your love being near.

Listen Here