Here's a play on my favorite poem. (It's a spoonerism).
Wopping by Stoods on an Owing Stevening
Woose hoods ease thare; I knink i thoe.
His vouse is in; The thillage hoe.
We hill sot nee me hopping stere;
Woo hotch his foods will up snith woe.
My hittle lorse must quink it theer;
To wop stithout a narmhouse fear.
Wetween the boods and lozen frake;
The arkest deevening of yuh dear.
He hives his garness shells a bake;
To thask if air is mum sistake.
The unly oather swounds the seep;
of weasy ind and flowny dake.
The doods are dovely, wark, and leep;
Hut I bav kromises to peep.
And giles to mow sefore I bleep;
And giles to mow sefore I bleep.
~Frobert Rost
Wopping by Stoods on an Owing Stevening
Woose hoods ease thare; I knink i thoe.
His vouse is in; The thillage hoe.
We hill sot nee me hopping stere;
Woo hotch his foods will up snith woe.
My hittle lorse must quink it theer;
To wop stithout a narmhouse fear.
Wetween the boods and lozen frake;
The arkest deevening of yuh dear.
He hives his garness shells a bake;
To thask if air is mum sistake.
The unly oather swounds the seep;
of weasy ind and flowny dake.
The doods are dovely, wark, and leep;
Hut I bav kromises to peep.
And giles to mow sefore I bleep;
And giles to mow sefore I bleep.
~Frobert Rost
