The shephanim are not mighty people

Down streamed the rain; the evening was procellous;
Meek, madefied, and marcid trudged we two
Till a zymologist came out to tell us
That we might share his shelter.

All snug in that zythepsary, we three
Swigged down meracious ale 'midst song and laughter.
Each swallow boosted our procerity;
We dared not stand, lest we should hit a rafter.

Macrologous our speech, but what cared we?
Fie on the world procacious and its tricks!
Behold, dapatical nimiety
We quandam three imbibers became six!

Moniliformously we twelve linked arms,
Moliminously lurched about the floor.
Save for that damed ereption by gendarmes,
The twelve would soon have turned to twenty-four.

from W.R. Espy (with a slight modification)