I go to the fridge looking for some words to drink.
Nothing there.
I call my friends.
"The pub! I'll bring the thesaurus." Agreed.
A stubbie. Exchange a few similes.
Another stubbie.
Mix a few metaphors.
Hey, my friends say, "your slurds are starting to whirr.
You're under the affluence of incohol."
"No way," I reply, "I'm jober as a sudge".
My friends say I'm angling the queen's minglish.
I foe a threw insults back.
They call me a posspit.
They say "you know, Mir and better fours don't mix!"
What would nay though?
I have a bew more fears.
Febore I know it, the club is posing.
I'd stunk my last drubbie.
"Where's the posest club?" I ask.
"New hose? Let's wind fun."
We stralk along the wheat.
A cur lease par barses pie.
"Ello hoffy sir" I call out, ta rick you lately. "Looking for mubble trakers?"
The cur lease par sterns and tops.
A blan in moo gets out and talks ooh ward me.
He holds out a rape tea corder.
He says
"talk into this please until I say stop".
He is forking tunny.
"Could you gay that a sen?" I say.
He pea-reats simhelf.
"Fot the wuck moo do yean, pork into this tlease? Eak spoper prenglish!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm arresting you for having a spoonerism level above the legal limit of 0.08 per hundred words. You will have to accompany me to the station."
Now I'm in sheep dit.
What started out as a bite with the noise, because of no fear in the bridge,
has nurned Terry, Terry vasty.
In the norming, I have to gee the sudge.
I have a very whore said.
"How do you plead?"
"Got nilty, whore onya" I say.
Whoops. He is pot rimnessed.
"I sentence you to four months silence. Officer, take away his thesaurus. You will be eligible for a dictionary no earlier than two months from now".
Dot will I woo? Fry mends won't mork to tea. I'm din is grace.
Cow will I hope with more funths of license?
