The Spoonbill Generator

When Spoons Collide

The outskirts of Odessa

The entrails of a town

Are plain to all who care to scry

The brow of Hermann Hesse

And his favorite professor

(who wore his evening gown)

(which nobody can deny)

The backstreets of Vancouver

The armpit of address

Are shunned by those who have a nose

Pneumatic as a hoover

And as easy to manoeuvre

(with featherlight caress)

(which everybody knows)

The docklands of Uranus

The fingernails of greed

Are craved by men who have a yen

To counteract the greyness

And the teachers who would cane us

(Pray let their hair recede!)

(Please torture them again!)

The playing fields of Eton

The shoulderblades of hope

Are duly spurned by those who've learned

The craft of Buster Keaton

From the foe who's never beaten

(However tight the rope!)

(However cruelly spurned!)

The sands of the Sahara

The genitals of spice

Are half-inflamed by those who've aimed

For lack of fresh mascara

To ravish Connemara

(Accomplished in a trice!)

(Though none of us was blamed)

The minefields of Milwaukee

The eardrums of the foe

Are soon abused, unless defused

By Jolson's brand new talkie

I'm telling you no porky!

I'll tell you what I know:

(To leave you quite bemused)

The islets of the Indies

The nostrils of contempt

Bunged up with mucus to rebuke us

As Sikhs rebuke the Hindis

And Action-men their Cindies

Rebellion to pre-empt

(as kelp unruly fucus)

The cesspits of Samoa

The kneecaps of regret

Are mostly full of burning wool

Coughed up from Krakatoa

When the price of coal was lower

And would soon be lower yet

(when it sensed the planet's pull)

The hencoops of Bavaria

The postbags of Pnom-penh

Are worth the price, the sacrifice

Of blotting out the area

Where sporting folk are hairier

Than the loonies from the fen

(where incest is no vice)

The dockyards of East Finchley

The flapjacks of Rangoon

Outwit our tongues, usurp our lungs

And cause our deaths eventually

For all they are, essentially,

Are sons of Lorna Doone

(On the ladder's lowest rungs)

The night-life of Mombasa

The discos of Dubai

Where brainy blondes wave tragic wands

Made of alabaster

Which presage scant disaster

(I cannot wonder why)

(My fleeting thought absconds)

The tramsheds of Silesia

The runnels of Rangoon

Are quite enough! Let's quit this stuff

For something rather easier

(This rhyme-scheme makes one queasier

Than gaping at the moon

Or playing Blind Man's Buff.)

Contributors: Roland, P, TG, Anon., Bop.
Poem finished: 4th May 1997.