The Spoonbill Generator

Trans-Atlantic Plagiarism, And The Combustible Alibi

Two doggerels, whelped in one litter

Too catty to sit by the range

Too rapidly weaned

They vapidly preened

But nobody thought it was strange

To hear a dead parakeet twitter.

The parakeets' two odes to Autumn

Each printed on top of its twin

So tightly aligned

So deftly entwined

And sent with a sickening spin

To the president at the post mortem.

Two nightingales owed me an answer

Too slowly I heard their reply

By straining each lobe

And twisting the globe

To stare the New World in the eye

While crossing Bengal with a dancer

Two cardinals, pointing one compass

To compass two plots on the isle

Where Caliban's spoor

Made Prospero dour

In tempestuous fury awhile

"What a spot for the Furies to dump us!"

"Two furies?" - "No, three," said the ancients

All eight of them dressed to the nines

But this could not disguise

They were sharing two eyes

To search the Sahara for signs

That the sandman had run out of patience

Too patient by half was the verdict

Too lame to be run-of-the-mill

Too sandy the beach

Too stubborn the leech

To pass as a substitute Pill

Or to improve on the already perfect

Two doggerels, whelped in one litter

Two sonnets too short by one line

Too hastily penned

Too broken to mend

Too lame for their authors to sign

So stupid that all readers titter

Contributors: Roland, TG, P, Bop, (anon).
Poem finished: 26th April 1997.