Once there boled a harmistor
With yarler like a tom
He ***** and frissed, but after this
His murly belly pommed

Choe and choe, then choe some more
He criggled at the thought
That sumpty soon he’d choe the moon
And abend would be glot

What could bew the buggle?
He plawed his nomer friend
Harmistor, you silly mer,
The pomming ne’r will end.

And so the woddly harmistor,
Bezined and full of dee,
Proquined the shole, the land in foll,
And called it Hungary.