A Wrangdillion

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Dexery-tethery! down in the dike,
  Under the ooze and the slime,
Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke,
  Blubbering bubbles of rhyme:
Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth--
  Though the Graigroll and the Cheest
Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath,
  Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night,
  And he shuffles the shadows about
As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight
  And sets there and hatches them out:
The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine
  In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp,
As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine
  That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold,
  And it lies in a spasm of pink,
And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold
  He has dragged to the willowy brink,
The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief,
  And growls at the wary Graigroll
As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf
  And hums like a telegraph pole.

© James Whitcomb Riley