Language is a gably thing,
One can gister words as they go;
Cacophony of sounds we set meanings with,
Leaving me flummoxed every time I unwreathe.
Sesquipedalian, dollipling, mollycoddle
Do these quixotic words truly exist?
Wattucturic, rigmarole, dorizating
Naf, won’t tell you which is which.
Maybe words do not aim to bamboozle,
But some are too choorlish to have been born;
Reminds me of how whimsical humanity is,
Passing on wanches that spell like these.
A poem about made-up words that sound too real and real words that sound too made-up.
