The Labyrinthine City
Canterbury? No, it does not ring a bell
Though, as I'm deaf, I'm not sure I could tell
What towers were a-pealing
From my home in far-off Ealing
Nor yet descry what standards were aloft
Deal? - Only if you promise not to cheat
Though in this game a morsel of deceit
Makes each hand a touch revealing
The strength the while you are concealing
And makes the hard akin e'en to the soft.
Rye? No, I'd rather try a little gin
Dripped on my skull and trickling down my chin
And thence into the new ceiling
Where a pool of blood, congealing
Swiftly, makes the place resemble a croft.
Grain? - I prefer the ruby grape
Though, as the maidem murmured to the ape,
My choice is less than tasteful
To drunken sleep more hasteful
Especially when a fez is deftly doffed!
Weft? Never weave when you should warp
And keep your filthy Grime out of our Thorpe
You did not hear my question
Or aid my indigestion
And quite ignored me when I gently coughed
Plymouth? No, I'm just not one of the brethren
I'm rather a more unique specimen,
Of genus undiscovered
Who should, perhaps, be smothered
And gently baked, while cleansing ale is quaffed
Ipswich? No I don't recall its ambience
Though often recommended by Zambians
And patronized by rugged champions,
Bold climbers of the Grampians
and fornicators, too!
Enough of all these questions, I've far better things to do!
Such as eating onion yoghurt or peeing on my shoes,
Or, otherwise speaking, writing a line on an igloo
While dancing on a corbel and singing Austin blues,
Not to mention utterly abandoning scansion, the rhyme-scheme and such fripperies
As all great art comes from taking liberties
Or eating cupcakes as if they were going out of fashion whilst drinking some gin
And mourning poor balladry which is quite the sin!
| Contributors: | Roland, P, TG, The Agent Apsley, Stacy. |
| Poem finished: | 26th November 1998. |