The Spoonbill Generator

Horse-Face Shrike In Lonely Dialogue

By leaving no margin for error

No risk was taken at all

So what could account for her terror

Perhaps it's the bricks in the fall

By making no plans for the future,

Nor peeping into the dark

She quickly lost all of her money,

Perhaps she should stop in the park

But to stop in a park with no prospects

And rummage for gold in the bins

Sinking one's hopes in a liner

No iceberg can freeze out her sins!

The park is entirely too dreary,

The band-stand's silent and bare

She'd run, but her eyes are too bleary

She'd weep. but she's sick of despair.

The error was leaving no margin

The error was simply a ruse

Permitting each client to barge in

Disrupting the orderly queues

No more than the width of two kippers

All mildewed and moist on the stairs

Within sight of the largest big dippers

Our fungi is sorted by pairs.

So let's not make light of our worries

Let's not pretend to be glad

The dormouse of destiny scurries

From the slightly unhinged to the mad

Contributors: Roland, KD, Stacy, TG, Bop, P, Kevin.
Poem finished: 15th April 1997.