The Spoonbill Generator

Chutney, the Ragtime Crab

I sighed for the feel of formica

Beneath my lugubrious feet

My Macintosh stinks of cucmber

(they're fainting a mile down the street).

Memories of unwashed tadpoles

Belittle my luminous pate

Their croaking disrupted my slumber

The barking of seals is my fate

My gaberdine reeks of misgiving

About my expected demise

The deafening drone of the Rumba

Will drown out the smell of my eyes.

Hanged by the neck from a lamppost

Bedecked with lubricative paste

I thought of a very odd number

Nine elves were attached to my waist

Yet far from becoming unsettled

They cried in mischevious glee

(It's spelt that way, South of the Humber)

And gave voice to this furious plea:

"Will nobody nurture my Apple?"

Or succour my devious peach?

My lanyard is covered with scumber

Which thickly bedecks any beach.

Thus ends my speech!

My heart is lead

As is my head

Contributors: Roland, Peter, John D., Jane, TG, P, PeterWRC, Mick.
Poem finished: 3rd January 1997.