Each Syllable Concocted By Buddhists
The pulse that beats within a flea
Is scarcely more than flutter
So if you take one home for tea
Don't think that it will utter
A paean to the butter
The pills that rattle in the jar
Foretell some inner ruction
That neighbours will soon hear afar
In token of destruction
A coded voice instruction
The polls that put us far ahead
Are very much affected
By proxies cast among the dead
Alas, still disaffected
Too late to be corrected
| Contributors: | Roland, TG, Apsley, loaf, Beefy, Kansas Sam. |
| Poem finished: | 26th January 2004 by Apsley. |