The Spoonbill Generator: Carbon Pump City

The never-ending cycle of the wars 'twixt good and ill

Is soon to be forgotten, mark my words!

For everyone has swallowed a delightful yellow pill

Their memories are shorter than a bird's

The gently falling motorbike has crushed my only friend

Whose shanks were somewhat rotten, I surmise!

For everyone has ridden past the wrecks of Howard's end

Oblivious to his howling alibis

Oblivious of the dictionary, oblivious of the text

His prepositions juggled and awry

He's cast aside his lexicon, he's heading for the next

Whose bookmark's an extension of his tie.

His gently smiling features hide the hate that lurks within

His elbows, more for barging than repose;

He barges in, still sniggering, where angels fear to grin

Reciting, from the Romance of the Rose

The unbegun resumption of the never-ending war

Reminds us of calamities to come

Crises and catastrophes, and chaos evermore

The hollered imprecations of the dumb

It's not that anyone we know admits to feeling faint

(Although our friends are swooning in their droves)

For all of our acquaintance is renowned for its restraint

Preferring twenty fish to thirty loaves.

Such alimentary algebra is neither here nor there

But rather on the midpoint of the arc

That links the fabled twosome and the long-forgotten pair

To the door we painted bluer than the dark

For hat we didn't know before is all too evident

(Or would be if we only knew exactly what it was)

(Or would be if we only know exactly what it meant)

Too evident for evidence, like wizardry from Oz

Incredibly, I still believe my uncle told the truth

"The Curate's Egg is just about to hatch!"

Or was this just the wishful thought of one without a tooth?

Of one who had no cabbage in his patch?

My uncle never spoke a word of that dread fateful hour

When, through the shell, the bloody beak emerged

For while he'd talk for ever on the loss of Fusion's power

His mouth would never open 'til the selfsame power surged

Another man might quake before the monster's gaping maw

Another man might flee its lashing tail

But he who's stout enough to brave the rising of the door

Shall live to rue the painting of the pail