The Question
In front of a crowd of reliable hens
I brandished my snaps of Montmartre
I showed them again my collection of pens
With the aid of this magic binocular-lens
Bequeathed to my uncle by Sartre
They stared; and their beaks fell agog in surmise
As I told them the truth about fish
The way that the future shines out of their eyes
The horrors to come, and the infamous lies
In the tale of Enuma Elish
Then one of their number, the oldest, I guess
Made venture to ask waht I knew
Ashamed as I was, I could hardly confess
That the answer, sewn into the hem of my dress
Was the square root of forty-two.
So I uttered a lie both stupendous and crass
I said I was Alfred the Great
I said that my mother was born in Madras
And ran a small farm in a polar crevasse
Where her cat had been Queen of Kuwait
The henfolk, aghast at these blasphemous lies,
Set fire to my good gaberdine
Ignoring my protests and strenuous cries
And the acrid aroma that rose from my thighs
As I ran in great pain from the scene
The moral, my friends, of this desolate tale
Is to cleave , sans regard, to the truth
Though fictions may glisten alike to The Grail
They're as hard to control as a forty-foot whale
In the hands of intemperate youth
| Contributors: | P, Roland, Bop, TG. |
| Poem finished: | 13th February 1997. |