Hillbilly Hitched! The Ignorant Hillbilly The World's Wackiest Poetry Page 3 This'n will pickle you tink.....terkle yer pink... porkle yer tunk....ahhh, skunk stink!... It'll git ya..'Specially th' little booger at th' bottom.

Seventeen Kerploppers of the Twenty-ninth Spittoon 
Regaled in garish, greenish garb, advanced one afternoon 
To a tassle-topped and terraced knob entitled Turkey Hill, 
Their final orders ringing clear... Kill!  Kill!  Kill! 
 
Their bayonuckles fixed upon their gunnies bright and shiny, 
Their headly gear bedazzling with its plumage, long and spiny; 
They never cast a backly glance, nor did their peepers vary 
From left to right or overhead, but focused on their quarry. 
 
The sun did sorely ionize the atmospheric cover 
And the silent windy held its breath as thoughts returned to mother, 
Their toothies clenched like bitemdowns, their hearts went into labor, 
Their memory-getters clawed together dreams of love and neighbor. 
 
The enemy lingered up ahead atop that sandy knoll, 
Those wanton tearemdowners who had claimed a fearsome toll. 
They’d destroyed the captain's pridish and caused the man to swoon; 
A great mistake that placed their fate with the Twenty-ninth Spittoon. 
 
The captain, he had spuck a speech; he'd cussed and yelled and bellered 
And swore to bring the hangman's swing to any man that yellered. 
But the thing that filled them up with rage, the thing that stirred their hatefuls, 
Was the thought of what the beggars did to all the captain's faithfuls. 
 
They lay there in a brokey heap, riddleized with holes; 
These beauties he had cherished for so long amid the knolls. 
These tender-skinnied beauties that he'd nurtured and caressed, 
These lovelies he had given life were now a gory mess.

And that is why they charged the hill, and that is why they screamied, 
And that is why their bayonuckles wildly waved and gleamied. 
That is why their footyploppers clomped upon the ground 
The day they charged up Turkey Hill to bring th' divils down. 
 
They topped the knoll like a tidy-wave in a churny sea of hate; 
They leapied 'cross the trenches in a crazy, vicious state. 
Their bayonuckles slashed the ground to drive the beggars out, 
While the shootems from their gunnies cut the air and bounced about. 
	 
For a violent hour they screamed and fought and slashed and shot and cut, 
Till the bleedy hill was barren in every crag and rut. 
And then the melee waned and died, the din began to fade, 
The firstly looie stood erect and wiped his dirtly blade. 
 
"Lads", he said, with a gaspy breath and a steamy, sweaty brow, 
"We've done the best we could, but lads, we've lost it anyhow. 
We couldn't catch th' blighter, 'e's too fast, and hard t' see. 
Now we’ll ‘ave t’ tell th’ captain that th’ scum are runnin’ free.” 

'Twas an awful, hellish, dirty day for the Twenty-ninth Spittoon. 
They'd let th' beggars get away who'd made their captain swoon. 
The deed would go unpunished, no justice for the felons 
Who'd snuck along the captain's fence and ate the captain's melons. 
 
The seventeen Kerploppers bore the blame with heads hung low. 
Their gunnies went to rusty, and their bayonuckles so. 
Their headly gear went tarnished, and their hearts grew weak and faint, 
And all because it's so blamed hard to kill some stupid ant! 

 Shabberjabbers!
 



 



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