There once was a quaggle of bearstrich (a peculiar creature, it bore a striking resemblance to a bear, with a bear's head, and four bear claws, but the body and tail feathers of an Osterich).
Like the Osterich, the creature ran on its back two legs, which were quite spindly for a bear, but all it had to support were these two massive (think "Popeye") bear arms and an unusual, large and stinky, bear's head.
This quaggle (about a half-a-quag more than a meeka and three-and-a-half times less than a terugala) of bearstrichs would spend the entire day standing on these two, spindly hind legs of a bear and drink manhattans in the blazing heat of the Death Valley sun (for they lived here to avoid the interruption of men).
They would drink and discuss politics.
Like Englishmen, they did this, all-the-while, in the heat of the sun.
Bearstrichs loved the sun.
It was most peculiar, for they never became intoxicated.
Their speech never slurred.
All day, they would drink and tarry, drink and tarry, drink, and tarry.
They tarry about the situation in Miler's Bluff, (for everyone knows those sofu (a Bearstrich expletive) Miler's are a bunch of corrupt ninny-poos), or about some sort of nothing that was usually going on in Pigpoodle holler.
The pigpoodles HATED bearstrichs, and the bearstrichs didn't care much for the pigpoodles either.
It all went back to the great war that transpired one half terugayar before the great migration to the Easterlunds.
A couple of the