Who Wobbles Behind the Arras?
Champagne was flowing down the stairs, perhaps.
'Twould puzzle me to see it flowing up
Unless impelled by thirty-six knee-caps,
Each hollowed out to make a Christening Cup
For that is what The Dreadful Edict said -
The team of eighteen cricketers, in pads,
Should throng the staircase, like the living dead,
Wearing cups to protect their precious nads
And, from a trumpet, quoff the flowing wine
If no bassoon be found, nor clarinet
That could produce the garting hideous whine
One hears when one castrates a marmoset
Champgane, I say, flowed swiftly and downwards
Thae staircase was awash with golden fizz
That trickled in its costly way town-wards
Betraying that it was not what it is
And thus the moral's plaine to see, I say:
Consistency in all things is a bore
For those whose life is just pretence and play,
Let's go get pissed, and write this junk no more!
Contributors: | Apsley, Roland, loaf, dan, Beefy. |
Poem finished: | 28th January 2002. |