To laugh at books To laugh at noon To laugh at night Or under the moon But, Mr. Moon Would you laugh at me? If I had only a single's tee ho-hummm ureee! I can't say it yet. You don't know what is. The best of my making four-wheeled machine biz. Mine's just this secret! We'll move right along. For I've become bored of laughing too long. I've gone to my shed and swiped up a wrench, parting one ton metal's worth on my work bench. Oh! Metal's-a-bore! Know plain old and dumb. Without a touch of ground-core plumb. To grind those pedals of engines at whirl, Between my laughing and our moon's nightly world. I'll make a machine! She'll fly straight can't you see! We'll build her from books. CALLING... TEE HO-HUMMM UREEE!!!! Never must-a-worry let worrying go To hurry in building from parts so we know: There's Grommets and Bolts, Screwtall Will Match, Whizzing Saw's Buzzing at Tumbler-Tin Thatch. First comes my frame. Finest and fair. Mine's such a wonder floating in air. Could it be a car? Forget Chitty Bang Blue. TEE HO-HUMMM UREEE! You're a rocket ship, too! "WOW!" You might say, "IS THAT FRAME ALL BUILT!" From Red Sand metal and silk-calico quilt. We'll fix a frame, with maybe one hole to spare, patching sole rubber from old Socks'n'Wear. Are we sure this will do it? To keep the wind out. While the wind is a blowin' our HUMMM UREEE about... To power our thrusters on Mustard Fat fries they mustn't hot bluster on take-off to rise. So churns the butter to putter in-lift. When mixed with some nutter, Quack-a-goo Quip. Is this the gas we'll pour into 'REEE taking us past the HO-HUMMM you see. At last here's the bang for our cool car ship. Chocked with plenty of Ripe Veggie Dip. Twenty-two tanks of Roll Butter Pure-A Are mixed at a boil on take-off pad thray. We've plumbed our metal and stocked this car for a speedy trip to that laughing moon far. No space suit... no---that's not needed! I'll dress in lamb's skin that's wurst wool pleated. Gloves are tin pans on over my tweezils who'll cover my nose when a loud snoot sneezils. Counting down from forty-to-three, Away we'll fly in the TEE HO-HUMMM UrEEE. First to de-patch our junker-cog jug. Tied to a catch near the Roll Butter Plug. Which noodles the needles on lifting a beam--- heating up oodles of steamed Quip cream. Six-hundred fifty switch 'N' pilot on go! Thirty-nine, thirty-eight seconds 'till main thrusters throw. Up in a cloud of cooked-fry diesel. Hold on to your hat. This is one ride, weasel! VROOOMZEEE BANG COUGH HICCUPP UMMMM DOOO! Up to the stars on over and through. YEEEEHAWWW!!! hollar than hollar's delight. We'll fly to meet Mr. Moon tonight. We see that place of Ho Hummley Yors, Sailing through rivers of CosmicChoc Smores. Melting in rays of gooey Sunilla, topped with a slop of FooFudge'n'Filla. No slowing down! More power to fly!!! Over a comet of ketchupcut fries. Wow!!! How close!!! Too close I think!!! Time to switch on our Carb-O-pop plink. That sweetens the soda for power-on-fast. Blowing out cola in ear rolling blasts. Sizzle top speeds pop fizzle per hour. Guiding us long past half in the hour. A wizzzleeee. A wink. A gizzleeee-tee-doo. Low the slow broom near Mr. Moon's blue! Now, I've had landings! Then some hard. But nothing like parking on Moon's backyard. I've known of bumps. Then a sea of green cheese. It's dotted with lemon-pop-polka dot peas. How strange this is! Most humbling yet. To see a low-bumbling Willow-weep Kept. No low-bumbling or creepy crawl tree, gives us a ho-humm or either tee-hee. Oh, Mr. Moon... Where are your friends? Some that I've heard So now and then. We know of Winter-Man Goobler McJello. Who eats only pumpkin-pit Hoobler, this fellow. Known to greet all in their moonstruck mellow, he rides a can-at-ta-tee and plays a shell cello. Who entertains all? Those no-nonsense budge. I must have a laugh or yawn wearing this grudge. Where are a thousand Plump, Popsel-Gone-Pizzitts. Who'd otherwise rumble when seen by those Fizzitts. You'd dare a jumble or riot and two, if tossed by a Widget or Screaming Egg Blue. Not much here. Not what I've planned! No one can see-- just us and the moon. MAN! Tee Ho-Humm UrEEE, Let's fly on home! Back to the shack. Back to alone. I could have made Snippits Or Tuddle Bug Cake Or sizzled up clippitts with a Whippit-lug rake. Or maybe... Fried clumpies in a clumpy coat bag Or served up Sir Lion in stewed-herring rags. Oh, all on earth! Where is my stove? One-thousand-feet-two that's pipin' hot plove. She'd boil a batter and whistle TEEE-HEEE! While fryin' pie-tatters for crowds I can't see. Would all those Fritters of Moon Friddle, DAA-DEEE come out for a snack if a snack is to be? For what is a Fritter...? With no pipin' hot plove. If you don't have a smatter to bake on Moon's rove. No. No not a clu-pett. Or space-singing root. Not even a Horned slummppett, Ace-flying ganoot. No. Not the Noodlecorn Nuberneck bustor, harvesting rows of poodle-shorn mustor. I'd like to dance with a Darcee-tailed Mott. Or laugh at a Feather-trimmed Humor-a-lot. It looks like a gather on top of this cheese, Would rather not happen to smarten or please. Sooo..., Mr. Moon. I'll bid you "farewell." Back to my shack. Where all that's swell. I'll climb in. Once more about. To fire up the engines of Tee-Hummm about. Wait just a minute! Is not what I see. It's coming in closer. And closer. I see. The shape of a finest. Is fair moving friend. Is none other than mine at the sight near...then. Something so loud is loudest at best. Here comes the proudest and most bad at best. Now. I've built motors and quilt rotors' planes, while milling those rails hauling huge candy canes. How sugar lumps roll!-- My eyes tune in sweet. Seeing the sight of a thousand figures' beat. Maybe they're Fryzels. Or Plump Poodle Bo'rays. Or eighty-eight noodles in sheeptux berets. This moon's got a story. One is for real. One that has come loudest and sauced up for zeal. We've gathered you moon are a space-filled glut. One cheese-splattered boon of nothingess rut. For all the trips in. For all the trips out. No one dared know of THEM all about. I don't mean THEM... those little green guys, With fleece-ugly faces and head like a fly's. I mean two, twenty-thousand and four. Twice as many now as ever before. All in a row--- thrice fifty times nine. All in a column led, dandy and fine. Great gala who! For snickety's sake! Sailing from shores on Caramel Cone Lake. Pilot that Red-Dandee Candy must float! Dressed in his beat of violo-may coat. Perhaps it's his thousand or maybe a mill, Man-can-at-tee dancing with grind organ Crill. "For all who are here! For all who are there! For all who come far! At the moon we must stare!" So sings the man who can drum up a tee, while taking the hum out of a ho-humm UrEEE. Maybe you moon are no space-filled glut. I'll take it all back 'bout that nothingness rut. In all of these matters and smidgeons of cheese. In pour the platters of fun just to please. Man-can-at-tee laughs and brings out his cello. While whistling a tune for our other moon fellow... I'll turn to my ride. Have we got enough quip? To lathe up a froth-flown galaxy trip. Better get home. Better be soon. See you on earth. Under the moon.