Picture This, My Chatelaine
Rembrandt, on his better days,
While leaning from the sill
Was startled by an upturned nose
Impaled upon his quill
He turned to Mrs R and said:
'My Dear, the time has come
To pack our bags and leave this burg
And its unsightly scum.'
They packed their bags without delay
And headed off to Morecombe Bay
Rubens, in the same hotel
Was pondering the view
Till, startled by an unmade bed
He made his vows anew
He turned to Mrs R and said:
'Take all my worldly goods
And pack your bags to leave this town
For foreign neighbourhoods.'
She packed her bags with tins of spam
And hailed an Austria-bound tram
Renoir, in the high Tyrol
Was overcome by fumes
He clasped his chest and gasped for air
And stumbled through his rooms
He turned to Mrs R and said:
'Until I gasp my last
We'll pack our bags with styrofoam
Mementoes of our past
They packed their bags in nothing flat
And hoisted sail for Ararat
Rodin, after exercise
Was resting in the shade
Till, half-remembering a dream
He spilt his lemonade
He turned to Mrs T and said:
"What happened to my wife?"
She packed her bags at such a speed
And left him for a life
Of sin; she packed for Babylon
But ended up in Ynys Môn
Rousseau, thinking through the night
Found notions slow to dawn
Till, suddenly, the thought took hold
That no-one loves a yawn
He turned to Mrs Y and said:
"You must remember this"
He packed his bags in silent mirth
And sought out the abyss
He made a pact that few would claim
Then moved to Mons and changed his name
| Contributors: | P, Roland, TG, trad. |
| Poem finished: | 24th April 2000. |