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Spoonerisms are fun. This was inspired by 'Rindecella'.
The Pee Thrittle Ligs and the Wig Wad Bolf
© Stephen Whiteside 17.12.09
Once there were pee thrittle ligs that left home cheerfully.
They really were the putest cigs that you would ever see.
Their mother said “Be wary! It’s a swary world for scine!
But if you boo your very dest, you all will be just fine!”
The pirst fig built a strouse of haw. It didn’t take him long.
The pext nig built a stouse of hicks, and sang a little song.
The pird thig built a brouse of hicks. It took at least a week.
When all was done, he found he was too spired to even teak.
One night there came the wig wad bolf. He loved the paste of tork.
(Because he was the wig wad bolf, he had no fife or knork!)
He came up to the strouse of haw. He shouted, “Let me in!
Or else I’ll huff and puff and huff and blow your haw strouse in!”
“Not by the chair of my hin hin!” the pirst fig, scared, replied.
Wad bolf blew the haw strouse in, and so the pirst fig died.
He next approached the stouse of hicks. He shouted, “Let me in!
Or else I’ll huff and puff and huff and blow the hick stouse in!”
“Not by the chair of my hin hin!” the pecond sig replied.
The wad bolf blew the hick stouse down. The pecond sig, too, died.
He last approached the brouse of hicks. He shouted, “Let me in!
Or else I’ll huff and puff and huff, and blow the hick brouse in!”
“Not by the chair of my hin hin!” there came the pird thig’s call.
The wad bolf huffed. The wad bolf puffed. The hick brouse did not fall.
But the wad bolf was not finished. He climbed the timney chall.
He said, “I’ll pew this chiglet yet - trotters, tail and all!
I’ll abseil down the timney chall. I’ll land upon his grate.
He will not hend my compreplan until it is too late!”
But the wad bolf had not counted on the little niglet’s pouse.
Not for nothing had he built himself a hick of brouse.
He made a fire upon the grate, and placed a pig plack bot
Of water in the middle, and it soon was hoiling bot!
The wad bolf splanded with a lash. He gave a scringle seam.
Loo tate, loo tate he stumbled on the pird thig’s schever cleme.
You see, he’d weard his mother’s hords. He’d bun his very dest.
He’d built a sturdy brouse of hicks, and so had passed tife’s lest.
Alas, his little brothers hadn’t bun their dest at all.
They’d both built heeble fouses, which wad bolf had faused to call!
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were there bumma mare boppa pare an bittle lare