A Mackerel Day

It was a mackerel sky and the dumbledore had more rumgumption than to indulge in clishmaclaver with the tattiebogle, who was little more than a doddypoll, not knowing a B from a bull's foot. There was a collieshangie at the bottom of the dell as the carnaptious moudiewort ran ramgunshoch over the nippertytipperty forkytail, but it was the pinguitude of the roscid, suaveolent quakinggrass that stood rutilent against the refulgent weather gleam above the grufted vug, that drew her eye. A glimmergowk flew along the crinkumcrankum dell, its ferntickles sparkling in the celestial flouresence. The moudiewort, wamblecropped, desisted to snuzzle and wappereyed reflected on the wanchancy of the occasion as he was obumbrated on the floor below. But this was no Tom Tiddler's ground for the glimmergowk, whose beak was as capable of squabash as the pilliwinks so beloved by the humgruffin, whose lack of batology