A Gonit on a sled
races home to his bed
through the colon of a whale
sleeping on a bed of shale
snoring gently, without fail.

Through corridors the green sled slid
past hooks and nooks
where blue snails hid
by toreadors who long debated
how they'd come to be located
improbably, deep in these innards
and who was singing that Lynard Skynard.

The Gonit's sled shot past the belly
where several ships swayed in the jelly
each one's crew singing quite loudly
a different tune, and they sang it proudly
all except for an alien saucer
who's crew sat glumly, reading Chaucer.

And from the stomach's cavernous walls
sounded pounding, and muffled calls
to keep it down, we're trying to sleep
and we hope you drown, you bleepity-bleep.

The Gonit slid
the Gonit slipped
past a half-digested ship
and a clam who had the grippe
and a drunk who was quite ripped.

A school of sturgeons
were seen merging
with a herd of white sea horses
and a jar of jellyfish changing courses.

A submarine was wedged between
an obese dolphin and a walrus,
six antelopes who'd caught a virus
squeezed by in search of mint papyrus.

And still the Gonit sped along
from colonic locations far and yon
through endless twisting tubes and tunnels
that slowly narrowed like a pink funnel.

The tunnel's subtle turn and twist
lulled the Gonit like a hypnotist
and his eyes began to droop
by the three-hundredth loop-the-loop.

First he nodded, then he dazed,
his eyes took on a glassy glaze
as he began to dream and dream of sleeping
because quite shut his eyes were creeping.

Into a Gonit dreamscape he sweetly slipped
as his body slouched forward and his round head dipped,
a move he regretted, there can be no doubt,
when he missed his turn and was pooped right out.

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