I have an inkling,
My long johns are wrinkling,
I can’t stop thinking they’re sinking, and stinking,
AND wrinkling,
This inkling is baffling me.
It’s a raffle, this waffle,
Falafel for drinking,
But laugh while you’re thinking and maybe you’ll find,
That in mind over matter a hatter’s no better,
At battering letters or bothering ladders,
Than brothers or fathers abetting the borders
Of mordor or Utah or more than you’re used t’
The matter’s more ominous, obvious; not so much,
Mortal insomnia mortifies me,
I scuffle for truffle when morning is yawning,
Shame on my frame it’s all tattered and tawny,
The fabulous fortune of fame is beyond me,
High horses hoofing, they’re proof that I’m boring!
The owls! The owls! They’re out looking for me!
Now five of the finest infernos are forming
Beneath the blankets! The bed is now warming,
It could be a puddle; it feels like a cuddle,
The one that you get from incontinence wine,
No bothers! Just feathers!
There’s nothing like drinking,
To sink all those tinkling inklings of mine!
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