I’ve a hell and a half of a time
In just getting my poems to rhyme,
And for being a prodigy
In linguistic prosody,
How I follow the rules is a crime.
There was an old lady from Beith
Who could utter without any teeth
Her fibbilanth became
A famouf tranfcribing game
And her vowel sounds beggared belief.
—Col. O. Nihilist
The twins clashed in dress, and with increasing er-
ethistic contention and teasing, were
And their rivalry sibled
Until she accused him of misling her.
When constituents leftward are sent,
It may be that some contrast is meant,
Plain old NP-VP
Has no prominency,
So on that topic I won’t comment.
—Morris Swadesh III
Get you #analbumparty
Be safe: #CamelCase
That strange witch at Greenwich who haunted
A wench who grew spinach was counted
In syntax quite orthodox,
Her thought fully in the box
Of branches with movements most bounded.
[The author finds himself enchanted if not haunted by the title of the long-forgotten pamphlet, The strange Witch at Greenwich haunting a Wench (1650).]