When Willy Walker awoke in his wool waistcoat,
he was wrongfully visited by wild werewolves.
Walker was no wuss, no worrisome wench,
so when the wolves wailed, he waited.

With weapons drawn, he waddled backwards and away.
Swinging a twisted, wood-wrought weapon,
Walker quickly vanquished one of the wicked wolves.
He bestowed wreckage with his wrath,
the wounds worsened with every whack,
each thwack an evidence of his worldly workmanship.
Walker wobbled wonderfully between the wolves,
a winged warrior, a warmongering widow maker,
whereupon the werewolves withdrew like whimpering whelps.

But with the wind, Walker witnessed
as two warty, wide-eyed witches
and two wisecracking wizards
wandered in the wilderness, walking towards Walker.
He wiggled his widget of warfare,
his revolver, which was acquired on wholesale,
whittled by a whore with a white wicker basket.
With a whipping whirl, Walker whammed a whalebone in their whereabouts,
welcoming the witches and wizards in a very weird way.
With his victory, Walker washed in water and wine,
wasting away in wedlock with a wretched woman.

What wearisome words we witness.
The wealth of wit and quality weaken the watchers,
for when typewriters aren’t working, the worst writings are written.