Enough To Warrant Onions
In praise of whelks, I roam the moors:
(As they in praise of me)
The beauty of the Great Outdoors
Is lost, beneath the sea
Where cuttlefish and pilchards roam
In search of who-knows-what
And seldom, from its lowly home,
Can mark the very spot
Where Ralph from all his fancies flew
(As had his aunt before)
And then embraced the clerihew
While counting back from four
To three, and thence to fifty-nine
By way of long division
And reading up a nifty line
To purge his pure precision
And thus, in sooth, we readily concur
The cauldron's not been made that we can't stir
Contributors: | Apsley, Roland, Beefy, loaf. |
Poem finished: | 19th April 2005 by Beefy. |