I assume you’re familiar with The Deeper Meaning Of Liff, by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd? If not, go get familiar, dammit! This is a tragic tale of lost love, in Liffian language. At least it’s not Klingon! (See Doch naS for that, if you must.)
The Manitoba’s no more use, our love is passed away.
Attempting to be Prungle isn’t fun.
My Willimantic tendencies have seen the light of day,
Enough to make my other brain a Clun.
Our Inigonish breakup left me Eakring and forlorn,
As Brabant as a Belding unawares.
We never did Inverinate, we spoke in Sittingbourne;
All Callicut (yet Libode) were our stares.
My Phillack’s cold and dusty, any Bures I had are healed
Now Peening Quarter’s where I have to live
I Hoffed at all the omens till the light our love revealed
Went Fring and gave the last it had to give
The rising tide of Lusbies doesn’t help my state of mind:
At any hint of Budby I’m Scugog.
But she’s a Lidiard Tregoze and she’s left me far behind,
More Udine than a rabid wild dog.
Foregoing Low Ardwello, as it’s never been my style,
The Mointiness is fading like the night.
To practice Farrancassidy’s unlikely for a while
(A pity, since I’d like to get it right).
Our love became an Araglin, this Banteer’s proof of that,
With me a knight and she a bitter squire.
My heart’s so full of Bealings they’ll be coming out my hat;
I cease to rhyme; with Beppu I retire.