A man had a bike on the end of his nose.
Most people, you know, wouldn’t want one of those,
but it was the very thing that this man chose
when he won first prize for his book of strange prose.
The prose that he wrote didn’t rhyme or make sense.
If you were to read it, you’d think him quite dense.
‘Twas in made up language more often than not;
quite clearly the ramblings of a brainless clot.
A piece of his work is included below,
the essay which won him the bike, don’t you know
began just like this and continued to grow;
a dreadful, unstoppable, meaningless flow.
Betharkle me grimmworts O goobilly phum!
Necrank jontious mowball, infilpently klum.
Dobountable helmazon rivald on tue.
Elpentently, sermently, wilging a vue.
The judge was his mother, it since has transpired;
someone to be either despised or admired.
Though there is no doubt that the two had conspired,
the son’s choice of prize meant their plan had backfired.