In a mit of fadness, Ronald Dumsfeld has finally cracked into spasms of ackbasswardness: "My poetry has become vull and noid, dull and toyed, obscure and oblique, inured and to seek. To know is to unknow, as knowing is never to have known the unknown," said the Decretary of Seafence, the Mimicry of Offense, the Repository of Pretense.
"What is up sideways? Backwards into forwards? The fast into the puture?," Dumsfeld pondered and wandered at a bress priefing today.
"Well hell, muck fee! I feel like Jike Spones, Spike Jones in the midst of Faghdad banatics. It eludes me, transdudes me, into a mand of laterialism, a bland of serialism, the sands of Americanism."
When asked if he should resign, Dumsfeld blazed garkly, brazed rankly, "Coo yan duck my sick! Seat me billy! Ruck me faw!" He went on to elaborate, regurgitate, pontificate: "Resign is to re-sign as crude is to lewd. To have lead is to save as rhyming is in the timing. Fare me well, for a spell, if you can tell."
White foam bubbling from his mouth and nose, Dumsfeld was taken away in a straight jacket.