A folispam, a tumblegrut,
Some slimy, sticky, filthy splut.
A wessel-flurp, a pibble-sneer,
A purple mucus-covered gleer.
A blechen-bleu, a garschel-snap,
A powdered bag of fattened glap.
And that is all, the complete list:
The grossest things that don’t exist.

This poem was selected for my book!

Whatever you do
Don’t eat the stew
Made by my mother
When she tries to feed you

It may smell delicious
And she’ll claim it’s nutritious
But it is the worst
Of all of her dishes

Worse than her skewered snake
Or her inside-out cake
Worse than any meal
She may try to make

You’ve heard the tall tale
Of my poor brother, Dale
He ate the stew and that night
He turned in to a snail

I can’t tell the story
Of our neighbor named Lori
Who once had a nibble
It is far too gory

While not taking a bite
May seem impolite
Your neck’s on the line
So shut your mouth tight

Trust when I say
You must stay away
If you’d like to live,
And see another day

So don’t eat the stew!
I’ll eat it for you
I’ve had it before
So I guess I’m immune.