Ode to the Oglochyssyginator

In the glimmer-glam of a fuzzling moon,
Where the Zindle trees sing a tangly tune,
Lives a beast—not beast! A chrome gyrator!
The world-renowned Oglochyssyginator!

It doesn’t buzz, it doesn’t beep,
It hiccups clocks and burps up sleep.
It turns your spoons to feathered fish,
Then grants your elbows one small wish.

It runs on jam and pickled dreams,
And socks that hum in silent screams.
Its buttons—ten!—spell “WOBBLEZANT,”
Though none can tell you what they chant.

With flibber-flaps and snorkle-fins,
It folds the air and reboots winds.
At dawn it gallops, slick with mist,
To tickle time with its whirligist.

Its job? Unknown. Its purpose? Nil.
It likes to perch on windowsills,
And quote the laws of anti-grue
To startled hats and kangaroos.

So if you find it in your shed,
Just pat its knob and scratch its head.
Then leave it there, and do not wait—
It’s off to scrumble Wobblegate!

And when the skies turn marmalade,
And thunder smells of lemonade,
You'll know it's near, that muttering traitor—
The sly and shy Oglochyssyginator.