Herring Orphans of All Totnes
How horrid is the elephant
That screams from yonder shack
I might need an exterminant
To slug it on the back
Although it may be relevant
To claim my beard is black
How squalid is the rigmarole
We hunters must endure
I had to brun my parasol
And sing an overture
To snare the Collared Pratincole
I met on Ilkley Moor
Much anger, then, is soon set loose
Upon the saboteur
Whose head is in the silken noose
The handcuffs lined with fur
That agents plucked whenas the goose
Ran riot at Harfleur
We hunters, though, are solemn folk
As we set about our task
We seek the pig but shun the poke
Behind our earthly masks
We seldom laugh and never joke
No matter who should ask
Your mum!
Who really should know better
Has come
(Along with Dr. Fetter)
to shun
everything with exception to the truth
As only she can say
Lavishly I employ, All the things which bring me joy.
Back and forth, forth and back, with my cymbals in a sack
I wait for their arrival
Without fear for my survival
For this I know ,that in the end, it is just a faithful toy.
Contributors: | Apsley, Roland, Grayman, Beefy, loaf, P, keith c, Patricia Hilario, dave, Stacy Alexander, Renee Harris, Craig Corbett, Holly Chandler, Jeissa Muriente, Melissa Iacovacci. |
Poem finished: | 5th February 2003. |