Synaptic Overdose (The Vogon poetry)

The Vogon Verse (A Brain-Melting Groove) Step through the frood-proof airlock, don't let the panic bloom, The Vogon Constructor Fleet just slid into the room. A mandatory recital, and you cannot refuse to stay, Their poetry will flay your mind and throw the bits away. It's the thrum of the prose, a synaptic overdose, Your hippocampus starts to glitch and decompose. With a gruntbuggly, plurdled groan, You'll wish you'd never left your home! Your brain begins to melt, your sanity's a loan. "Oh flundered gruntbuggly, Donallitude— Thy micturations are to me..." A single chord slams heavy, and you know you'll never be free. "As plurdled gableblodgits on a lurgid bee, That mordiously hath bitled out its earted grabatiously... Into a rancid festering—can't you see?" Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts! Your frontal lobe is coughing up its circuits. "Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes..." A whisper in the chaos, then the silence breaks your bones. "And hooptiously drangle me... with crinkly bindlewurdles!" The final stanza hits—your consciousness just curdles. OR ELSE I SHALL REND THEE IN THE GOBBERWARTS WITH MY BLURGLECRUNCHION—SEE IF I DON'T! The thrum of the prose, that synaptic overdose, Your personality has turned to putty and to throes. With a blattergork, a sundered thought, The battle for your mind is fought— And lost. Don't panic. Nothing's left. It's all for naught.