The Margarine Heart-Throb
This divan whereupon I lie
(Turn your face to the wall)
Was left me by your Uncle Stan
So go and find it if you can
Although it's rather small
This sofa that I hide behind
(Close your eyes tight shut)
Was built for me by Henry Ford
To be your final, just reward
Although it pains your butt
This ottoman, whereon I mope
(You shall not say a word!)
Was plucked from Hell by Richard 3rd
Prematurely disinterred
Before the world could cope
This armchair whence I watch TV
(O Parker-Knoll! Yee-hah!)
Was almost sold to Auntie Bee
But t'was rescued handily
And brought home in the car
This tenement in which I died
(Turn your flesh to the wall)
Time-capsule on millennial tide
With nadgers' artefacts inside
And bodgers in them all.
This sombre town to which I came
(Turn left at the lights)
Was named 'Gravesend' at some time past
More hellish yet than Gormenghast
Who craves transcendent heights?
This county, where I live betimes
(Seek it on the map)
Transcends no chart ; in terms of growth
'Tis small, or so the census quothe
For streets that overlap
This country with the leaden skies
(Vow to it -- it's yours)
Has never felt a tropic blast of heat
Or surge of any incomplete
Tsunami at its shores
Contributors: | Grayman, trad, TG, Jane, KT, P, Roland, Elizabeth, Bop, Bijou T Rheum. |
Poem finished: | 7th January 2000. |