The Mushroom Antipope
His terror of fruit was a virtue
His love of small fish a delight
His hollering whine would alert you
(though senses may seem to desert you)
To set your own whiskers alight
His plan for the dome was appalling
Each buttress invited despair
A man of most clerical calling
Spent most of last Saturday falling
As he slowly got drunk at the fair
Falling in love with a phantom
His bagpipe stuck fast to his chest
He wailed like a barbarous bantam
With a cry of "e spuribus tantem"
(the motto of Old Budapest)
His efforts to win notwithstanding
He sat in despair by the wall
The dismal half-light on the landing
(whose walls stood in dire need of sanding)
Cast shadows on nothing at all
His plan to become an apostle
Were thwarted with bucket and spade
He cried to the crowd "Do not jostle"
Or I'll strike you with this broken fossil
And drench you with stale lemonade
Falling at last by the Tayside
Into a stuporous sleep
Lulled by the sound of the A-side
And tinny trombones by the wayside
By the light of a twenty-foot sheep
His loss was no bone of contention
No sorrowful teardrops were shed
But even his stupid invention
To combat the belly's distension
Could fill any fruitbowl with dread.
His prospects for decapitation
By legions of latterday pike
Will be cause for substantial elation
Behind the decrepit tram station
At the grave of the derelict bike.
| Contributors: | Roland, TG, PeterWRC, P, Bop, Linda. |
| Poem finished: | 15th March 1997. |