The Dark-Blue Door
or NOT F.L.
It is an oft-forgotten fact
That Romeo and Julie ate
No food from dawn to dusk.
Though drowning in a cataract
Their much-belovèd plastic pet
Which chewed upon a tabouret
And spurned the soggy rusk.
I had a long-remembered dream
Which never yet took place
About a nun who ran amok
And hanged herself upon a beam
Of sunlight on the isle of Thrace
Where pyrex ploughmen make the pace
And cows are out of luck.
This is a long-awaited day
When Margelet with distant look
At all her many kin,
Makes merry and begins to play
(Not even looking at the book)
With all the maids, and even Cook,
And joining them in sin.
But split asunder, like the sun
For all my words are like a bun:
I spit them outwards, one by one
Until I stop.
The wild hedgehog raised the cry
Though Hugh remained asleep;
And since the Beau could not but peep
To gather up his surly sheep
And shear them, like a witless fool
Who sees without an open eye
And, ageing, leaves the school.
The papal purloin shook his locks
While standing on the quay
Reading ribald poetry,
And swinging from the shady tree.
He cried to all in silence then
"I grant this boon, that in the docks
You'll have no dearth, my dears, of men."
The purple locksmith shook the page
Whereon the curse was writ.
It read, "No more shall wombats flit
Or elephants the target hit"
He read it and did cry with rage
(He was a madman, not a sage)
No diligent vassal his wrath could assuage.
The frightful dark
Upon the bathroom stairs,
Your scornful scold
And hang it on a peg.
©1973, 1999 The Rat Fathom Poets
Edited by Peter Christian
May 31 2023.