They say the oceans are full of Prankton. 

But are they really? I mean who’s kidding

Who? Can it be that zillions of micro-

Scopic critters have nothing better to 

Do than pull microscopic practical 

Jokes? And the folks that study them! Are tax-

Payers really paying their wages to 

Watch slapstick among the minutiae? I 

Have a fiduciary duty to my 

Constituents to put a stop to this 

Waste of money. And what kind of pranks are 

The hombres up to? Are there sexual 

Overtones? It’s time to bring an end to 

This hanky-panky among the Prankton!

The ruckus you hear is the sound of the duckus.

Last week we found the tooth of a Mooth at

The edge of the woods, an exciting find

For in truth no one has ever seen a

Mooth. We suspect that it’s either hairy

And tall with a curving proboscis or

Winged with a pendulous beard and very

Wide antlers. How the Mooth mates, what it thinks,

And why it exists are puzzles the shape

Of the Mooth’s tooth cannot solve. There’s an

Alternate theory, though one we’re loath

To admit. Perhaps after all of these

Years and all of this research we’ve simply

Been saying it wrong. Perhaps, forsoose, what

We’ve found is in troose the toose of a moose.

The most admirable bird that flies on

The wind and drinks from the wave and poops in

The sea is the Arbitross, which has no

Sense of direction at all. It circles

The globe if the wind is right, and if it

Is not it circles a spot the size of

A teacup, suspended on wings as wide

As a house and led by a head that would

Fit on a mouse. Whether the Arbitross

Finds a mate is a matter pretty much

Left up to fate, as is the lone floating

Egg that’s laid by the female. Oh to fly

Forever and feel so free and poop in

The sea and not even witness the splash!

The egg never beggs to be gathered.

Oh, the Platytudypus! How nice that

It should live with us and share its wisdom

Every day. There is no end to what it

Knows. And though it often overflows the

Bath and stops the loo and cannot help us

With our math, we love its sleek and moral

Ways, its turns of phrase, its always knowing

What to say when we are rendered speechless.

The Platytudypus is never rash,

Nor does it carry any cash for ice

Cream, toys, or sweets or tipping servers when

It eats, preferring paying with a saying

Or advice. But mustn't tease it when it's

Sad or else the Platytudypusn't.

Today we remember the Turmeric,

Which went down in still water three decades

Ago, spilling thousands of gallons of

Turm-oil in a suddenly raging sea,

Killing the trade in the oil of the Turm.

The young have never seen the spawning runs

Of that terrible fish--seething shallows,

Oleaginous carcasses heaving

Ashore. Being born in a Turm year

Was very bad luck. Since the Turmeric

Sank no runs have returned. No one knows why.

But we who remember still worry. Are

The seas truly empty of Turm at last?

Or are they schooling to spawn even now?

The horse is rarely found indorse.

The Sturmudgeon is a curiously

Whiskered fish. It has sentient moustaches—

Very useful in the Sturmudgeon’s world,

Which is dark and muddy and notably

Short of fingers for feeling one’s way. You

Might almost say the moustaches can think,

Not very deep thoughts—just “Ahhh” and “Hmmm” and

“Oh-oh” and “Hey!” (But for some people that

Is plenty of thinking.) While it whiskers

Along, the Sturmudgeon’s regular brain

Catches up on its rest, though sometimes it

Rouses enough to opine, “Why, yes!” and

“Of course!” and “Nevertheless!” Though really

The cause of these thoughts is anyone’s guess. 

The lamb isn't used to make hamb.