Diagnosis: Wrackbloit

Apologies Van, for you've already heard this one - but to everyone else, this particular post consists purely of my nonsense poem, written during today's spare. If you would like a glossary of the words, I would be happy to oblige - however, I think for the first read-through I'll leave these foreign words and their meanings to your imagination. It's much more fun that way! Enjoy! :)

Last night I dreamed a dream as I lay sleeping in my bed;

I dreamed of teeny, tiny glinks fluzzing 'round my head.

I swattled and I swiggled, trying to catch them in mid-flight -

Alas, those winged fuzballs stayed, try my hardest though I might.

Come morn, I did awake quite curflubled in my room,

as the glinks in my ears whispered: "Welcome, welcome to your doom!"

I stumbled to the mirror in my giddly, groggy state,

and discovered purple bloofers bloofled to my skin, like bait.

If you believe this is the end, I tell you, there is more;

I bloinked about the house in search of shnar-filled corridors.

And only once my hair turned blue, my townails broke and rough,

Did I call the doctor and exclaim, "I've had enough!"

I then journeyed to the clinc and waited for my turn,

nervously anticipating answers I would learn:

"It is my hypothesis that this imaginary sploit,

I regret to inform you, is the make-believe wrackbloit!

In no way is this poem perfect. I haven't taken the time to change lines that I don't think fit, nor have I really taken the time to emphasize the implied fact that the doctor is speaking to our poor narrator at the end. However, I would like your opinions and suggestions for further development. If I was to take this poem and develop it into a story or a childhood journal entry perhaps, do you have any ideas regarding delivery or context?

thanks,

DHALL.

PS. I won't usually be writing this nonsense stuff... I'll have something different for you come Sunday!