The Lost Banter
Thou, pollen, art my nemesis
And I shall be thy Muse
With Ipecac my emesis
That's why I sing the blues
That's why I sneeze the fol-de-rol
And do so every day
(Each afternoon I crawl the hall.)
My fever is of hay.
Small, thou art, but powerful
The bee thine only foe
And, when it is most flowerful,
The honey then doth flow
My eyes, astream with cataracts,
My neb, aswill with phlegm
That, though just like tesseracts,
Is less benign than them
Thou particle of purulence,
Sly venefice of Ver
And union of virulence
I wish you'd go elsewhere
Contributors: | loaf, Apsley, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Chevalier, will h. |
Poem finished: | 20th June 2006 by loaf. |