In Africa, Hoplessly Lost
We don't regret the cakes that glisten in the sand
What's time for Isabella's tide for Ferdinand
For raging is a passion that is not reserved for bulls
And the undertow of fury fashions pushes as it pulls
We won't dissect the snakes that listen in the Strand
"What time is it young fellow?" "Time for herding clams!"
For aging with compassion's what is not reserved for books
And undertakers' lurid passions cushion avid crooks
We loan insects the brakes and pistons from the van
"What wine is that, good fellow?" "Wine from Birmingham!"
Four agents with companions who are not well served for looks
And under-waiters puree passion fruit for gravid cooks
We hold inspections of fake pistols from Japan
And of illicit furniture posing as rattan
For asians without spaniels do not conserve their books
And men with pocket hand grenandes pick turkeys up with hooks
We moan if Rex and Jake have a frisson of a tan
Dogs, seafood, xmas slaughter? - this demands a pelican
With a zen for quite invention in the nooks
And hens with sprockets in their blades pick fir trees by their roots
Our testament of longing hits the bottom of the pan
Frogs see food, there's mass slaughter, they command a billy-can
Courageous in our bunions, we do not curve our rooks
And Ben has dreadlocks and cool shades and dirty biker's boots
The Poet starts to wonder when the Muses left the scene
And who was left there standing where Euterpe should have been
Inspecting the connections to the lyric stratosphere
He then turned to sweet Thalia, and said "Fancy a beer?"
She snorted and disdained to quaff the evil-smelling brew,
The evil-smelling poet shrugged his shoulders and withdrew
Whilst Thalia went off to quaff at the Pierian Spring
How true! A little learning is a dangerous thing
And now that we've set Alexander spinning in his grave
We'd better think what Athens boys are ready to deparve
They may have drunk just enough to intoxicate their brains
Unless they're foxed, their boxes locked, they'll waste their ill-got gains
Although the poet's stinky, there's a moral to his tale
Offend not gorgeous nymphs with gifts of evil-smelling ale
Or they will tell your secrets to the fishes of the deep
and suddenly everything crumbled to dust
Contributors: | Apsley, Yoxi, Hamish, Madge, Grayman, dkb, Anon.. |
Poem finished: | 14th May 2000. |