Concealed In Plain Leather
Of all the nights I've spent abroad
The dullest was in Thrace
I don't know when I've been so bored
As when I found that mace
Beat nutmeg in a spices race
With camomile a distant fourth
But not a minor third
I don't know South from West or North
Or fart from major turd
I wish I'd never met that bird
Thrace, you see, is not the place
To go if you'd have fun
Instead: To Rome! To tat some lace!
To eat a currant-bun?
And hook up with a Latin hon
Contributors: | Beefy, loaf, Kansas Sam, Apsley, asdf, Karin. |
Poem finished: | 5th February 2004 by Beefy. |