in the quintessential dream the goozwits fly and flail on rhyming waskiboars. The fluecy blue skies wrinkle with clouds and the tufty trees sway. And, oh, how they call their coolaga-lye as the lavendar dot of desire grows gleamish in the wind. Such fritter-fancy impedes them not, for this is the dream of dreams my friends, this is the dream of dreams.