grunches in bunches

From the start of all time, before even clocks,
the Gaggle would gather to mimic and mock,
poohpoohing the clothes and the joy of a few,
in their humpity bumpity hullaballoo.

With cocktails in hand, they mumbled and grunched,
about latest fads, and the gym, and a brunch
that didn't quite do as it does when it dunt,
the profiles all lied, the ones on Manhunt.

Sinning and grinning, and grinning in sin,
Tsk Tsking and flailing like fish without fin,
The subjects they ranged from A through U,
they were the blackiest creatures you ever could view.

Now the Grinch had no use for this useless chatter,
and the Cat, well he had too much ham on his platter,
and the Whos wondered why and the Nots wondered Who,
and Horton dismissed every consonant too.

On the edge of the circle, outside looking in,
stood one Finneas Fabreze who had heard all the din,
all the talk of the bars, and the drinks, and the frocks,
and comparison of shape and the size of their socks.

"Enough, enough" he exclaimed as he left,
ridiculed even more, he walked away deft,
"Enough with the names and the fake little games,
a place free of grunching and Gaggles my aim."

Time passed, a day, a week, a year
Then clocks were invented, the calendar near.
Other patents would follow, too many to choose,
but how about tea, and coffee, and news?

Finneas learned from the paper a curious thing,
of the town he had run from that previous Spring,
in an article framed way high on the shelf,
was a story of the Gaggle that had eaten itself.