When Spoons Collide
The outskirts of Odessa
The entrails of a town
Are plain to all who care to scry
The brow of Hermann Hesse
And his favorite professor
(who wore his evening gown)
(which nobody can deny)
The backstreets of Vancouver
The armpit of address
Are shunned by those who have a nose
Pneumatic as a hoover
And as easy to manoeuvre
(with featherlight caress)
(which everybody knows)
The docklands of Uranus
The fingernails of greed
Are craved by men who have a yen
To counteract the greyness
And the teachers who would cane us
(Pray let their hair recede!)
(Please torture them again!)
The playing fields of Eton
The shoulderblades of hope
Are duly spurned by those who've learned
The craft of Buster Keaton
From the foe who's never beaten
(However tight the rope!)
(However cruelly spurned!)
The sands of the Sahara
The genitals of spice
Are half-inflamed by those who've aimed
For lack of fresh mascara
To ravish Connemara
(Accomplished in a trice!)
(Though none of us was blamed)
The minefields of Milwaukee
The eardrums of the foe
Are soon abused, unless defused
By Jolson's brand new talkie
I'm telling you no porky!
I'll tell you what I know:
(To leave you quite bemused)
The islets of the Indies
The nostrils of contempt
Bunged up with mucus to rebuke us
As Sikhs rebuke the Hindis
And Action-men their Cindies
Rebellion to pre-empt
(as kelp unruly fucus)
The cesspits of Samoa
The kneecaps of regret
Are mostly full of burning wool
Coughed up from Krakatoa
When the price of coal was lower
And would soon be lower yet
(when it sensed the planet's pull)
The hencoops of Bavaria
The postbags of Pnom-penh
Are worth the price, the sacrifice
Of blotting out the area
Where sporting folk are hairier
Than the loonies from the fen
(where incest is no vice)
The dockyards of East Finchley
The flapjacks of Rangoon
Outwit our tongues, usurp our lungs
And cause our deaths eventually
For all they are, essentially,
Are sons of Lorna Doone
(On the ladder's lowest rungs)
The night-life of Mombasa
The discos of Dubai
Where brainy blondes wave tragic wands
Made of alabaster
Which presage scant disaster
(I cannot wonder why)
(My fleeting thought absconds)
The tramsheds of Silesia
The runnels of Rangoon
Are quite enough! Let's quit this stuff
For something rather easier
(This rhyme-scheme makes one queasier
Than gaping at the moon
Or playing Blind Man's Buff.)
| Contributors: | Roland, P, TG, Anon., Bop. |
| Poem finished: | 4th May 1997. |