A Memo Went Out

A Memo went out to the Withals of Wii,
   Sorely lacking the love of his life.
He squonked every dank and each dark, morrid tree,
   But he just couldn't locate his wife.

He besirked the old Pensquill who tended the bridge,
   Who glimped with a glimmer most sly:
“Your wife?  She's been napped to the Wurr of Refridge,
   for she's caught the faugh Ymael's eye.”

“Oh, botz!” cried the Memo, and twindled his head—
   He was always a bit of a ranter—
“I've no magic, no craft!  So what is there instead
   To befrazzen Ymael the Enchanter?”

“Take these zyr rocks,” the Pensquill besweedled, “for I've
   seen that every one plicks with magic.
I'll sell them to you for eight kroons ninety-five,
   In light of your plight that's most tragic.”

“Why so much for some rocks?” Memo bummered, acrimed,
   But he took them.  What else could he do?
To the Land of Refridge he betook him betimes,
   And he tocked the zyr rocks in his shoe.

The Wurr had a guard, a most blaverous crew:
   A phalanx of phax with a laser.
Memo's wife sqallered, “Help!” and her thonguid she threw.
   His troubles, it seemed, did not faze her.

The phax spaldered out from the spannerous wall,
   Snarling snarks and deranging their pinions.
Memo shrank from the klangage, and seeing them all
   Thought this guy sure had frightening minions.

Memo pulled off his shoe and kerwhunged the zyr rocks,
   and he hoped that their magic was great.
The monsters he hit with a series of plocks,
  Which made each splunt in two, and then eight.

Memo yankered, “Scraboot!” and he clocked it away.
   Barging brash through the borrage he fled.
Then middled himself 'hind a burnum most brae,
   And quite feeblously stuck out his head.

But the zyr rocks unchanted the phax, who did smite 
   Over Ymael's robe and his stuff.
The Enchanter, despellified, squeedled with fright.
   Fleeing all, he escaped in the buff.

—Cathy Douglas, Madison, WI