Whatsoever It Findeth North of Dunfermline
For the Law was given through Moses
And the Crimes through Mickey Mouse
Who, though he but scented of roses,
Polluted the whole of the house
In his time, he'd battled with Donald,
The presidential duck
Who, though he resembled dear Ronald,
Came never so unstuck
This Law took the form of a shotgun
The Crimes, of a three-line whip
In a vessel we christened The Hot Bun
Quite lacking both body and lip
In his time, as loading a cartridge,
He slipped from the past to the present
And, drawing a bead on a partridge,
Was shot through the head by a pheasant
So the Law was enacted precisely
From Pluto to furthest Penang
(Where the natives say 'Carrot!' so nicely
While their pets are preparing to hang)
It came into force with a whallop
It passed into legend that week
It was broken at once by a trollop
Whose mouth was too busy to speak
When she uttered, 'twas most arrant piffle
And caused all the card-sharps to quail
In the fear that their line in old whiffle
Was certain to falter, or fail
Who saw it but could not obey it
Was judged no less puissant than pale
And, upon the injunction to 'weigh it',
Pronounced it was 'way off the scale'
For the Law was a mass without measure,
And the Crimes were a gas without charge
That was buried alone (without treasure),
To hasten the fall of the Raj
And the Crimes were the Law in extremis
And the heroes the villains; and so
Let us go to The Pole with Old Bemis,
With old B, to the P, let us go.
Contributors: | Apsley, olaf, Surlaw. |
Poem finished: | 8th February 2007 by Apsley. |