Beyond Any Logic
In autumn-time, a small spittoon
Must serve in lieu of warming-spoon
A custom which has oft been cursed
By sailors, who are not well versed
In metaphysic or in law
Although they know how much to draw
Each pay-day, when they go ashore
And, once ashore, they know full well
The haunts where dusky mermaids dwell
But shun them, for they smell of cod
And seek the private paths, untrod
By landlocked folk who shun the deep
Where nautilus and narwhal sleep
Preferring acquiescent sheep
Along those paths, in three and fours,
They surge like agitated boars
Their tusks akimbo; on the trail
Of bandicoot and spotted quail
On whom to sate their baleful lust
As all men know that sailors must
Before descending into dust
| Contributors: | Roland, TG, P. |
| Poem finished: | 12th November 2000. |