"Stop spouting nonsense!" was my teacher's cry
when I was but a lad there at the school.
"Don't make your elders gasp and wonder why
you're talking like an addlepated fool!"
Then I would nod, and stare down at my book,
and think of goldfish wearing black toupees
who made their home in some old babbling brook
that only babbled Shakespeare's tragic plays.
I'd keep my lips shut tight, while conjuring
a land where purple grass feeds golden cows
whose honey-flavored milk is for the King
alone, and whosoever he allows.
It didn't make much sense, that I'll admit;
but still, I think I had a knack for it.