which fitted quite neatly in fluffy blue slippers.

Simply adapted to searching for food;

a strangety willoping flibberry dude.

His passion, his fashion, was bilberry pie,

and oh for a snifter he’d happily sigh.

Squeedly Tweedler would fargle and blither;

to the bilberry bush he’d slantily slither.

But n’er on a Monday and n’er in June,

would the Squeedly Tweedler, a Bilberry, prune.

For Bilberry had to be purpley ripe,

or the Squeedly Tweedler’s tummy would gripe.

He picked them and snicked them and slabbered in glee,

and frugally baked some in pastry for tea.

Then Squeedly Tweedler would off with his trove

and slantily slither to Niggaly Grove.

There he would trade with Bimble O’Nimble

for Flimberry Jam purveyed by the thimble.

Bimble O’Nimble was blighty and bleer;

he often wore hats through which he would peer.

Bimble O’Nimble would scaggle and skeek

for many a mile, to Flimberry seek.

Oddly in June his fare would abound,

and only on Monday was easily found?

But all became clear for their prize was the same

“Bilberry,” “Flimberry,” what’s in a name?

So Squeedly Tweedler and Bimble O’Nimble,

their pie and their jam (purveyed in a thimble)

It seems were in tune (their tastes much alike)