Misadventures Without Misconduct
The travails of my giroscope
The long-forgotten antipope
Who never gave himself much rope
To hang the wretched poor
Betray his rotary disguise
Beyond the circled path he plies
Abune the orbit of the eyes
Where only beagles soar
Intensely, with apparent ease
Ignoring anti-papal pleas
from Obelix and Eloise
He circles evermore
Despite his Himalayan hats
His hirsute vest, his whitened spats
His liking for wet habitats,
Where once there lurked his whore.
"For shame!" you cry; and shame indeed
Will cleanse this globe with lightning speed
Of all who sport the Harris tweed
Or gambol in the raw.
"Despite", I cry, "my larger size
and smell of paint that never dries,
I promise to forswear the lies
That threaten our rapport.
"Around", they cry, "the compass spins"
And any cardinal who wins
Shall father twenty sets of twins
To spite his mother-in-law
"At last!" we cried, "the end is near"
Imbue me with a sense of fear!
Now gather all my children here
To view this dead macaw.
|Roland, Peter, TG, Bop, Mick, P.
|26th December 1996.