The Impossible Poem Poem by P.D. Turner

I have a friend called myrtle,
Who really liked a turtle?
That was coloured purple,
Jumping over a hurdle,
Running in a great big circle.

And began to whinge,
She didn't have a syringe,
To put in an orange,
She wanted to tinge.

Myrtle has a friend called Wilbur,
Who went all of a quiver?
At putting in a water filter,
In his great teapot of silver.

But he got over it in a month,
Almost really quickly at once,
Thinking he was a dunce,
Ending with some terrible grunts!