Dreaming Our Favourite Cyclones
Wandering churchwardens, speaking in tongues
Threaten our water-supply
No-one can calm them, for nobody knows
A language in which to reply
We've complained to the bishop, who cares not a whit
Rejecting our pleas with a curse
He's only concerned with the size of the font
And will it fit into the hearse?
Deacons and various men of the cloth
Seasoned by years of neglect
Attempt to appease us with vegetable broth
They know will have little effect
We've consulted with lawyers and issued a writ
Respecting our rightful deserts
And dinner each night at the Tour de la Pont
(The size of the bill is what hurts)
Bishops and shamen, who should know the truth
Will have nothing to do with our cause
With many a fumbling 'fie' and 'forsooth'
They make a true sham of our laws
We're compared to the doctors who, lacking in wit
Can not tell a hog from a horse
While we, who are perfectly sure what we want,
Are forced to respond in pig-Morse
Contributors: | TG, Roland, P. |
Poem finished: | 11th December 2001. |