Hootie.

Buttered, crunchy, cream filled fish,
Once caught and clobbered grant one wish,
Bulbous, minty, velvet larks,
Astound stray cats with throaty barks,
The powdered froth of muurga mould,
Tastes like meat when pressed and rolled,
Bitter threads of cheesey heather,
Make thermal socks when weaved together,
Earthy, punjent, praline bugs,
Burnt with beer can repel thugs,
Stodgey, jewel encrusted gruel,
Can be passed off as opal fool,
Whilst what you thought was carmine sponge,
Can be faked with baked rum clunge,
Fynx frond broth can taste quite phallic,
to those with an unrefined palate,
Doofer cheese, mateured down south,
Fizzes loudly in the mouth,
Its pinkish curd from way up north,
Induces lisps when thucked through thtrawth,
The studded flesh of wimpoles pear,
Is not your usual fuity fayre,
And when you snarf it down your gullet,
It blows your arse off like a bullet.