The Spoonbill Generator

Misadventures Without Misconduct

The travails of my giroscope

The long-forgotten antipope

Who never gave himself much rope

To hang the wretched poor

Betray his rotary disguise

Beyond the circled path he plies

Abune the orbit of the eyes

Where only beagles soar

Intensely, with apparent ease

Ignoring anti-papal pleas

from Obelix and Eloise

He circles evermore

Despite his Himalayan hats

His hirsute vest, his whitened spats

His liking for wet habitats,

Where once there lurked his whore.

"For shame!" you cry; and shame indeed

Will cleanse this globe with lightning speed

Of all who sport the Harris tweed

Or gambol in the raw.

"Despite", I cry, "my larger size

and smell of paint that never dries,

I promise to forswear the lies

That threaten our rapport.

"Around", they cry, "the compass spins"

And any cardinal who wins

Shall father twenty sets of twins

To spite his mother-in-law

"At last!" we cried, "the end is near"

Imbue me with a sense of fear!

Now gather all my children here

To view this dead macaw.


Contributors: Roland, Peter, TG, Bop, Mick, P
Poem finished: 26th December 1996