Apricot Britain
My ice-cream dribbled into the soft earth, as Rachel
Blew tender kisses
To her androgynous friend, and cut
The cheese and fishes.
What a spread was there to see!
Five miles away you could smell it--
Or was that Rachel's body odour?--
Sadly it was--and none could quell it.
None save the Bishop of Bath & Wells,
Who, firmly clutching his mitre,
Thrust apart the Walls of Doom,
(His body had grown lither)
His cassock glowed with holy light
(You know the kind...)
His mitre smote he with full might
Plump Rachel's fat behind -
He spanked her fully half an hour
With urgent thumping
"These blows will drive the demons out!"
He howled, whilst pumping
His face grew purple as he beat
his shoes flew across the room
In these exertions, mighty heat
Was produced, and ran right through him
Rachel, then, was a bruiséd lass,
When the Bishop's robes ignited
And burnt up the Khyber Pass
Perhaps he got too excited!
The moral, then, for Rachel's kind,
Is "Always wash your fat behind,
Lest maggots should infest you there"
(The same applies to underwear)
And if this moral fall on deaf ear
Then curséd be the rhymes that stand here
| Contributors: | Apsley, Anon., fester, dkb, Beefy, melody, dan. |
| Poem finished: | 29th April 2002. |