Suds
The main thing to remember about hunting with a fish
Is why they don't like suncream on their fins
Their only fervent wish is to not be put in tins
For they much prefer cucumber on a dish
Whenever it is sliced in a fashion quite sublime
And served with three (precisely) drops of lime
(and wine, it's necessary, remember of wine)
This poem has a funny sense of time
but breaks (I grant you) no tight spatial fetters
Though some rotten swine has shuffled the letters
And replaced them in some arbitrary order
That threatens to impinge upon the border
'Twixt madness and the lesser state
Where reason goes for quiet escape
From the rantings of the grape;
From the pantings in the grate
To the stock of the vile hoarder
Who likes to keep his eyes above the water
Will soon believe himself some six feet shorter
Than any stable person oughter
Who ensnares the dormant sleeper
Will himself be hard to wake
By his handcuffed park-keeper
Mumbling as he leans upon his rake
The main thing to remember about sailing on the Moon
Is not to give way to the lure of the dune
While sailing Tranquillity's shore
Where trod the ghostly Minotaur
No! You must keep your eyes fix on the spitoon
And serve with a not quite serrated spoon
Stolen from some hockey tour
The stubble of some ancient field of yore
Bereft of meaning for us lesser cruds
Bereft of cleaning for the wetter suds
Akin to those that feed the lawn
While stifling a well-bred yawn
That wrings the nettle from its buds
And still goes on and on and on.
This ballad is a woeful tale
Let's end it, and new dreams assail!
| Contributors: | TG, KT, The Agent Apsley, KR, E Greejius, Grayman, Elizabeth. |
| Poem finished: | 18th November 1999. |