The Spoonbill Generator

The Mushroom Antipope

His terror of fruit was a virtue

His love of small fish a delight

His hollering whine would alert you

(though senses may seem to desert you)

To set your own whiskers alight

His plan for the dome was appalling

Each buttress invited despair

A man of most clerical calling

Spent most of last Saturday falling

As he slowly got drunk at the fair

Falling in love with a phantom

His bagpipe stuck fast to his chest

He wailed like a barbarous bantam

With a cry of "e spuribus tantem"

(the motto of Old Budapest)

His efforts to win notwithstanding

He sat in despair by the wall

The dismal half-light on the landing

(whose walls stood in dire need of sanding)

Cast shadows on nothing at all

His plan to become an apostle

Were thwarted with bucket and spade

He cried to the crowd "Do not jostle"

Or I'll strike you with this broken fossil

And drench you with stale lemonade

Falling at last by the Tayside

Into a stuporous sleep

Lulled by the sound of the A-side

And tinny trombones by the wayside

By the light of a twenty-foot sheep

His loss was no bone of contention

No sorrowful teardrops were shed

But even his stupid invention

To combat the belly's distension

Could fill any fruitbowl with dread.

His prospects for decapitation

By legions of latterday pike

Will be cause for substantial elation

Behind the decrepit tram station

At the grave of the derelict bike.

Contributors: Roland, TG, PeterWRC, P, Bop, Linda.
Poem finished: 15th March 1997.