Pam Sandwiches, Pruriently Sliced
The millimetre: squat, unclean
Unworthy measure of our queen
And of her unctuous subjects bland
Far too short to span the land
Far too slim to fill the gap
Between the flagpoles on the map
That shows the Empire, laid to waste
By bombs and missiles made of paste
By clubs and cudgels wrought from phlegm
According to the apophthegm,
Whose dictum is beyond all doubt
To those who speak the tongue of trout -
To those who dream in urban black
I say 'I want my turban back!',
While those who favour rustic white
Do not know drakest day from night
And abrogate their appetite
In manner prim and quite obscure
Embroidering the Upper Ruhr
With a sandwich from the weft
That the addled spawn had left
On the toe-nails of the king
As he danced the Highland Fling
About the market-place
In farthest Thrace
(The Captain claimed)
Our fresh disgrace
Would go unnamed
| Contributors: | Surlaw, Shipp, P, Apsley. |
| Poem finished: | 21st October 2003 by Anon.. |