lay off my fotchpak, you big palooka

It was noon and the scallywunches were dillying through a large, brambled meadow of wheapnipples. Treading about griplessly, dwindling their cares around the smell of gripplecrag and horseshoes, they went about the day with reckless wheatabix.

By evening their foppledunks had sweened the entire skyface of Alblama, and little was left for their steps to callhollow like the living and the dead. They sweetened the setting sun with the shipless abandon of a wanton fotchpack, and fro and fro they snithered and swithered, bushing up against the reeds.

Soon the stormbrown consumed the gistings of the day and came down fleetering and fluttering from the hills. It was floon time on the break of slein, and the ballyhollows were saddened by the pollywigged silence of the children.