The Spoonbill Generator

My Smothered Haggis

Cut away, cut away [Surlaw]

Says the song [Apsley]

But I never listen to what anyone says [P]

On the field-phone, no, [Surlaw]

Nor by the speckled beacon bright [Apsley]

I listen only to my inner voice [P]

As it strikes a gong [Apsley]

And fans me face at the window [Surlaw]

Laugh aloud, laugh aloud [Apsley]

Chimes the ant [Surlaw]

In the way of a man dressed in shrouds [Apsley]

Of the field-fare's plume [Surlaw]

Bedecked with straw and feathers; [Apsley]

It could not recant [Surlaw]

The prose works of Joyce, [Apsley]

Or bust me guts in the cellar [Surlaw]

Peck away, peck away [Apsley]

Crow the birds [P]

Some of them clockwork, others unreal [Surlaw]

In the way of a dream; [Apsley]

Purblind, with lines or circles [Surlaw]

They do not despise [Apsley]

A tangent or two [Surlaw]

Or the novels of Samuel Becquet. [Apsley]

Contributors: Surlaw, Apsley, P.
Poem finished: 6th March 2000.