Nonsense redux

I snap Jasper twigs amid a florid tentacular grunch, but like the zappity Hartford brunch, I billow speciously into fisticuffed granulations; I tether the frutonia like sworling hogg yashews in brigadoon ballrooms.

The mooncock pheasants bray widely and fecundistically while a groony faffle of quoral narwock vagillionaires court calamity in yew pine meadows. “Tra la la,” saws the Woad Granger as consequence tribbles igloo-like underneath goondoggled parth bunions. “Fazootska my haberdashery!” I cry to the fop; I wizzle toward the coughing narcot.
But ’twas all darwood and mammaries, ’twas blue-blood rothmunching gunderskunk.

Welted in lackadaisical fraggery, the dasil beech yadeblow pops into my mind--quite mephistophysically I might add--and Father Tune zounds me a bright plinkered package, a Kazakh dreedle slashered with neo-preen fetishistic varicosity. I fold open, and drawjopped, I manulate three sammy clucks and a dark widgical loofula:

“Woe, vloosh, and salmon trestles,” I emittify, for it is a fortunary blooshing. “Anon, I was tuckered and yet here now fronds the underclutch!” My my, the ironious turn of gluck--ha, like I always said, life is full of ridiculistic zapretskys!