From muddled clay where this Book was founded, O Sultana, the vainglum peasants who huddle your ankles, bring their flippers for your spatula, whooshing like damseled whorls before you. May the foreskinned tribes cast better wishes, make curtsy pies and cabbaged kowtow soup. In your meadow slashed to stubby-love, may this lament dwindle to your pheasant-licked toes. Like a golden pricked massage may you not be spiritless, may this mud become your broth.

O Sunwurst who defined a moonmoan, O Sunwurst who sleeps rainbows, may you deem worth within the argued and past wooed, may those who are heartsick pardon your slack and paw, may the Netherwurst receive you when Damsel enters stage bereft in Apron to blank your weakish wishes in the torsos to the flinching bleats.

O Spoonswirl of Sunwurst, I am wrought with snot, for I am bombswell from which the GOURD was sowed. I will be neither learnt nor scored, for I am Prophetess, eldest of the GOURD for who all the covegrunt trembles with her EYE on Tabershrillville; I am the traversed clairvoblunt when Damsel is lost in hoopskirt, my name will carry furlong and a big wick.