Artisans, Ninepence Or Less
In his ochre jodhpurs
P. G. Wodehouse lounged
In the beggars' basement
That his father'd scrounged
From a distant cousin
Whose builder's hod purrs
Nineteen to the dozen
Just outside my casement
In the mouldy morning
That some salesman pawned
For a beggar's penny
On the which he fawned
Wodehouse lost his reason
As a sheep was yawning
Half way through the season
In the fields of Letterkenny
In his puce pyjamas
T. S.. Eliot basked
In the king's apartment
Where Columbus asked
How the globe might falter
Without several llamas
In a single halter
Athwart a bluff escarpment
In the fest'ring twilight
Bold Æneas stood
Few against the many
By the grizzled wood
Eliot, defeated
Only yesternight,
As a mutton bleated
Of its woes so many,
In his wooden waistcoat
V. S. Naipaul
Sat in God's jacuzzi
With a dish of tripe; all
The goods he owned
And his whopping Grey Stoat
(Which once dethroned
That author's whining floosie)
In the hot and frothy
Maelstrom of despair
That unjustly lashed him
In his tungsten chair
Naipaul grew too restive
In the silent bothy
For a night of festive
Silence. Then we trashed him
By dint of which the astute and non-corrective reader, critic or handsaw will understand:
Nothing
Nothing will come of nothing, speak againe
With a heigh-ho, the wind and the rain
Tiddely-pom, &c., &c. - the rest is silence
Contributors: | Surlaw, Apsley, (trad), Shipp, P. |
Poem finished: | 27th January 2007 by (trad). |