I've never been that great a poet (though I am occasionally very poetical). I could never quite get the knack for meter and rhyme. So, when I wrote this poem, I invented a lot of words on the spot to help the flow:
There once was a man who lived on a street
Two blocks and a half from a good place to eat.
He jogged every morning, six days of the week.
He ate with his family, friends, and his threek.
Now what is a threek, you may say to yourself.
A threek is a creature who lives on a shelf
And who feeds on the dust that collects in the corners
And reads to the children and also the horners.
And what are the horners, you ask yourself next.
They love to learn lessons right out of the text.
Lessons like adding, subtracting, and such,
But they themselves cannot read anything much.
They see all things backwards, so nothing is straight.
They're nothing at all like the Snagglethorphate.
She listens intently to everything said
And plainly remembers all things in her head.
The Snagglethorphate is not nearly as bright
As a Tippenthroe out on a full-moonlit night.
For the Tippenthroe's mind is unleashed by the moon
And knows anything, everything, at least until noon.
Then at noon, the Tippenthroe seeks out a bed.
He takes one vacated by a Simmolothedde
Who wakes and who rises at noon everyday
And who, without thinking will go where he may
But will always return just in time to dine
With threeks, snorks, and snoozles at twenty to nine.
Before he retires, he jogs down the street
Like the man who lives down from the good place to eat.
- Stephen Monteith
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