Therapeutic Heresies
In the field, no break of day
Not a ray, not a ray
In the street, no gleam of light
How will we find our way?
Let the deaf lead the blind
Not a sight, not a sound
On the stem, no whiff of blight
Where shall we go to grind
Boneless wraiths, tired and damp
Weary on! Weary on!
On the tyre, a jaundiced sprite
A gremlin on the ramp
Shadows of the childless souls
Not a sound, not a sight
For anyone of nervous plight
Or worried by dark holes
In the Vesper, not a vowel
Not an eye, not a ewe
Not a sty, nor a stew
Will hear its winsome howl
On his Vespa, cruising slow
(Nottingham! Nottingham!)
Every week, on Tuesday night
The Sherriff drives his beau
In the field, no end of night
Knotted rags all knitted new
All is wrong that once was right
And day becomes the time of fright
| Contributors: | P, Roland, TG, Stacy, The Agent Apsley, Mick. |
| Poem finished: | 19th December 1997. |