As is also true of the title, only a third of this gathering of nonsense will go down easily. The occasional appetizing bits--""When the down is sick,/he calls his wife/and she butters his head/with her buttery knife""--are lost in a gummy potage of dadaist wordplay and tedious verbal meanderings: ""Bumple snigglefritzers,/Are not really bumple snigglefritzers./They are really schwizzers who want to show off./So they cover their heads with lobular zilchers,"" etc. Rhythm and rhyme are established but seldom sustained, while the untitled verses swim in scribbled illustrations colored with thick, smudged crayon. In the last few pages Spilka's language suddenly becomes conventional, his tone more serious. This is even slighter than his last offering, Monkeys Write Terrible Letters (1994).