The soy and the seven sags

There once was a soy with seven old sags
herro hurrum bellow bags
never notice contump glands
sweltered cheap china nose from hands

aha cried cramp cumpet
suckle from one others nose?
trice came the beets with no hollow
shoe crows

seven dastardly sags
doth twiddle doth they shine
sand sand sand sand crab milk nose hay brine
sheep or goat
i cannot decide
through my own devices i divide
and compute to a three
on which i balance
a man and a tree
both come to be even



seven weeks of crayon smelting and my days were numbered, how long could i keep work here, undercover without the master noticing i was gone?
seven weeks at the handle of a smelter, without notice? it was all too gay for me to beleive. The master was scrupulous and unforgiving, if he were to discover that i was away. He would surely be taking my hands... no my feet
or one foot and one hand, best not think on it. he would already be angered if i returned, all i could do now was wait to see what would happen. Just like i thought several burds of soy sprouted from the walls and created one large lorse. I sat calmly, turning my smelter, with only short glances at the lorse. I knew it was watching me, i could see its beady finch eyes staring right through my bowler hat.
"Cray crellum bogerheeth!" i screeched at the hovering lorse.
It turned sharply, resolute and precise.
"Hee heezum, mohagblargh hen doyos?" it's thunderous voice pronounced.
"Geebe geebum garbo gelk" was my own little reply.
"Ectum ey bero el seldo hanada!"
He was surely most pleased.
With his last seliloquay the giant lorse tangled its burds close in time for a tale, of crayon smelter to lorse from the base of my heart. But i could not tell my tale for seven large ogres broke into the crayon factory that day, the Lorse quickly tassled me in his burds and we made a hasty escape.
For seven years have i traveled in the burds of this giant lorse, we exchange memories, thoughts and our predictions of coming events. Sometimes we return to the destroyed remains of the crayon factory, and reminisce in the sunlight.
I am a lucky soul, for on the day the ogres attacked, my old master came to find me in the abandoned factory. He must have known somehow i was hiding there, maybe it was the note i left him, or just his sense of the grander finch.
In any case my master was forced to flee the battle, no Hated-finch can take on a group of ogres, you see my master was a finch as well, but not one of grand divinity. He was the hated finch, finch that was hated. He listened to mainstream music and at fish. No other finch liked him, no animal liked him, only ottersly otter. Sometimes on our trips to the destroyed factory, the lorse and i see ottersly crying, and paying his respects. Normally we throw cheese and cabbage at the sly old rooster, but sometimes we leave him cry. For no otter deserves such teasing on every occasion, not even ottersly.
Twas this tuesday that the giant lorse and i travelled to the moon, we stayed some weeks, and left before the sunday evening, so as to return home before the week began. The lorse swallowed the mayor of sandburg, though he is still alive, they created a grave for him. I was most uninformed and missed the ceremony, and now am on the run from the Herrowdao police. Luckily for me, no vehicle can match the speed that is a giant lorse, and in any case i am safe from harm.