The Spoonbill Generator

The shadow cabinet-maker

Craftsman of the dark

Ignites a fatal spark

To notify the Quaker

Who had gone to meet his baker in a flat in Drayton Park

In a gin soaked mackintosh

Garment so refined

By accident designed

To turn black in wash

The baker wrapped a cosh to beat the others of his kind

The fakir lemon oatcake,

Cooked on glowing coals

By the Fellows of All Souls

To help relieve their snout-ache

Which had started when their football team had lost by seven goals

In a sun-soaked valley

Hooked on pudding dreams,

Ignoring all the screams

Deriving from the galley

Lies the chef who rents a chalet from the Neuropath of Nimes

In a sin-soaked backstreet kitchen

the pudding calls your name,

Tequila takes the blame

And rum unpicks the stitching

Till every limb you're itching starts to feel the very same

The baker's new assistant

A eunuch's child, no less,

Ignoring his distress

So piteous and persistent,

Has forced the wretched cabinet maker's mistress to confess

The silver-haired old canon

His epaulets afire

Inflamed with such desire

A calamity of the senses,

His sitting on the fence is just the hallmark of a liar

The Undertaker's daughter

A clammy lass indeed

Before she starts to bleed

Shall execute the slaughter

And reprimand the porter who betrayed the baker's steed.

In a hazy, fume-filled coven

Where he kneads his nasty dough

To sell at Sabbath's show

Or some other languid love-in

The baker casts the spell and sees the dough begin to grow

I fancy dancing peascods,

I fawn on caper sauce

Atop braised albatross

An off'ring to appease gods

Who try to sell the free sods when we're paying for the gorse

I want a flap-ear'd giglet,

I want a purse of silk

Upon my laughing violin,

I'll waggle it and wiggle it

And dance a gleeful half-step whilst the baker spills the milk

Contributors:	Roland, P, Bop, TG, Stacy, Anon., stacy, jp, KD.
Poem finished:	12th May 1997.