“My bedrooled whandle! It’s been pleevered! Bereft of whandle! O my belurnid Koffminster, what shall I do?”

With these words did the Umperor of End address his Koffminster, his yits brindling with hot pleeds.

The Koffminster cast his yits boonward and addressed his Umperor.

“My dear Umperor, this is a purgid goffidy indeed. Your whandle—has it really been pleevered, like a common bognit?”

“Pleevered, indeed! Koffminster, such a goffidy has not bestrump the Umperors of this urg for a long tuft...not for many gropples! A fine Umperor I shall appear, bereaped of my whandle!”

 “Your Humnus! May I remind you that, whilst this is a goffidy for the nubble noom of the Umperor, it is a tragic untergubbin for the throngdom at large! For that very whandle is needed to stimple our lovely flowdering Grammed Nardloop! And if there is no way to stimple the Nardloop...”

“Our Nardloop will himp! Himp lummer and lummer, until it slomps on the grund!”

The Koffminster nobbled. “Your Humnus, you must save our Nardloop. Rapple your gusty Flarmsmen, and pog them forth to sprook your bepleevered whandle, wherever it be outstarbed.”

A gorn blamfed. Trimples of smartly bandroped Flarmsmen rankled themselves before the Umperor in tricorn hoopits. 

“Flarms! Sprook nilwards! And soopwards! Sprook every rimple of these bargling yinns! Do not sumple, do not weef! You must sprook zendulously our pleevered whandle from whereupside the narpsid pleeverer might have starbed her!”

The Flarms spankled weemsward and soopward and nilward, korving in zendlous huds, hoping to pood out the pleevering of the whandle, and thereby to set right the already visibly himping Nardloop.

Alas, from the quogs of Palavon clear nilward to the Siffing Slimps of Ahaha-Garoo, from the frigious chizzles of Arx to the Croax of the Soopward Har, nary a pleevered whandle could be sprooked. The Flarms gurbled whimlishly floomward, and sprakked the purgid boog to the Umperor.

The Umperor wheemed: “The Flarms, for all their stoffish glibbery, have flimmed. O iggish flimmage, now whonce shall I sprook my whandle?”

The Koffminster baffed his deep-roggled yits at the Umperor. “There is no choice, Your Humnus—duty is frampant upon your magnilic pow. You must rundle...”

“I cannot rundle... the Parlous Hoon?”

“You must rundle it.” 

“But the Hoon…it is horridule! Terrorform! It will…”

“The Hoon will slubb forth the Arrant Angles from the high murtins of Ud. Yes. I know. But you must do it. Only the Angles, those argent mimsters, have the gorb and the wickle to skroot out the whandle from the thief’s deef and kravish hool.” 

The Umperor rundled the Parlous Hoon. 

“Call forth the Arrant Angles,” he yeffed, “and bid them skoor the grattleways for any lowrish pleever that mightwise have joobed our whandle! Quillish, for ever lummer and lummer himps our Nardloop!”

And lo! In yaggs of willish froon-fir, there rose such a klixon of dim that the very yawts of nearby uglings were hampled.  With such froon and frime did these gallish gibberboons skaff the weefing hobs of the Lower Jar that no grattleway lay unbunioned, no murtin was left unskrint. It was said that even the mutley fungles of the Fleerest Wikes were rusped out of their korzly bints and were sent guggling amperly down the runted stoom. 

Alas, the bangarang of the Arrant Angles proved far too raddle for the common fardlery. The fardles oofed and yobbered abaft the throngdom. And so the Umperor felt compurled to bid the Angles sloff hoobward.

So thoroughly gumfuggered was the Umperor that he eeped to his Koffminster:

“Must we upgum the entire fardlery just to gamp that oofid old Nardloop? Why for many long yims that Nardloop has been woppering my view, every time I sprook out the window. Admittedly, I shall miss my whandle, but a Grammed Nardloop is merely a imgid of the throngdom, and not the throngdom itself, no?”

The Koffminster sneefed his ungstack. With a blar yit, he roogled the iddlish Umperor.

“For numpteen gropples, Your Humnus, the Umperors of End have plied their whandles to the stimpling of the Nardloop. Shall YOU be the first Umperor to let the Nardloop gluff its final pood? Think, Your Humnus! Can you vum such a reekly ickbin?”

The Umperor haubled noifily. He roobed his wallish nog. 

“Can you not grobble, Koffminster, that my whandle is pleevered, and pleevered for good? Even the Arrant Angles flimmed in their slurk for my whandle.” The Umperor shragged his nog. “Nay, Koffminster. Adjunkle a proglooberation. Tell the fardlery that the sprook for the pleevered whandle is klumpt. Yes, klumpt! And don’t look so bruffed about it!”

So the proglooberation zimmed soopwards, and the fardlery were besmoffed at the Umperor’s betrunsery. But what could they do about it? They shrigged, and they smooked up their lums once more as they had done for gropple upon gropple.

And the poor Nardloop, unstimpled by any whandle, gluffed out its final pood, and yammed, with a slish like plinking cambles!

Then did the Umperor and the Koffminster and the Flarmsmen bewurf that they had not been more zedulous in sprooking the whandle! It smecked of the iggishest betrunsal. Even the mutliest fungle could see it with her own yits. 

And the besmarked name of the Umperor was cursed for a thousand gropples—he was the woddleplated binsy who had allowed the Nardloop to yam its last pood. 

And O! did the Umperor woop his yits one raily Utterday, when he happened to sprook under his quig – and there lay his bedrooled whandle! It had not been pleevered at all! He had merely misyarled the thing!

And so for want of a whandle, the Nardloop is begront, and we fardles of today have never skivvied a whort, nor smuffed a begrimp. And the throngdom is a pindowless and sparvished place, from the quogs of Palavon clear nilward to the Siffing Slimps of Ahaha-Garoo, from the frigious chizzles of Arx to the Croax of the Soopward Har.