Sentence The Fivehundredandtwelfth 

A young pachydermous was strolling one day,

In the shade of the cool Shalimar,

Not a care in the world,

With his fine trunk unfurled,

As he sought out his Mammon his Pa;

That elephantitus found barring his way,

A chimerical Mahout who said:
"Come her my fine Jumbo,

I'll feed you some gumbo,

For I fear your poor parents are dead!"

"Dead, dead, my parents are dead,"

That young Fanta trumpeted low,

He blew on his hooter,

A fine root-a-tooter,

And then tied his trunk in a bow;

Well, the Mahout attempted to kidnap the calf,

By offering second rate nosh,

But the babe was not fooled,

As his grieving was cooled,

On the Mahout he put the kibosh!
"Here comes my Mater and Pater as well,"

That wee baby Mammoth rejoiced,

Their trunks intertwined,

And on fig leaves they dined,

And three trumpets blew loud as they voiced:

"Grub, grub. glorious grub.

There's nothing quite like it in our local pub!

In line we go home,

A meandering roam,

Through the billowing foam,

We go home!"