Creative Writing Wednesday: “Leap Day”

Posted: February 29, 2012 in Creative Writing Wednesday
Tags: ,

Well, people, today is Leap Day, so named because it is the day when, every four years, the earth’s gravity decreases by one-half, allowing us to take massive leaps like we never possibly could have any other day in the year…

…or something like that.

I don’t actually know.

In any case, since I was a little bit bored a couple nights ago, my mind was wandering– you know, like it does– and I somehow came up with the first line of this stupid poem. That is also a folk song. About Leap Day.

It makes no sense whatsoever.

Please note, the nonsense words in this poem have no translation. This is not “Jabberwocky”. I leave it as an exercise to the reader to figure out what the hell they mean, exactly.

~ Ian

 

Leap Day

 

I went out a-riding on Leap Day

to nobblify my gorblemeep.

When who did I spy out a-walking

but a bogglious boy with a sheep?

I said to the boy, “Good day, son”,

to the sheep, “How do you do,”

and I said “Do you know how to get to

the town of Cobble Caloo?”

 

Said he:

 

“You go past the oogle and under the moogle

And right round the joggily jee.

You make ixlings behind the old mill-pond,

Are you sure that you understand me?

You framtify your gillgaloney,

You dorgle your chomble and spong.

You imble and amble your umbler.

I tell you, I steer you not wrong.”

 

Said I to the boy, “Thank you muchly,”

and I said to the sheep, “Fare thee well.”

and I rode past the spingle and thutchly,

and I passed the orgullic gram pell.

When I found that my mind it had wandered,

and my path it had gone all awry.

So I asked a young man for directions,

for he looked like a pretty smart guy.

 

Said he:

 

“You go past the oogle and under the moogle

And right round the joggily jee.

You make ixlings behind the old mill-pond,

Are you sure that you understand me?

You framtify your gillgaloney,

You dorgle your chomble and spong.

You imble and amble your umbler.

I tell you, I steer you not wrong.”

 

When I came to the cobbulous village,

I spied a young maiden quite fair.

She had long shiny teeth and a top hat,

and gleep-flowers grew in her hair.

I lay her down under the bong tree,

and she zimbled and quorkled my spling.

“Oh, wompluck my shorble,” I cried out,

“Droobquay and zorbuck my thing!”

 

Cried she:

 

“Oh, please yorgrick my steeble and shadrick,

gumble my trooblious fwees!

Quockle my torbulent pimbo!”

Said I, “I’ll do what you please.”

So we passed a long while ‘neath the bong tree,

as she cried out, “Quip quip quooray!”

Although winter had not quite furmuckled,

it was just like the First of May!

 

FIN

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