Repeatedly Focal
Old Uncle Tom made a nuclear bomb
In revenge for the death of his son at the Somme
And the thousands of widows who wept on his tomb
Whose constituent limbs served to furnish his room
Their legs kept his tables well off the floor
And their skulls formed a pile to hold fast the door
For he never went out, as his eyesight was poor
As the buttons that shine every night on the moor
Which, though they look nice, are poor as church mice
Whose meagre comestibles never suffice
To fatten them one bit - quite unlike my poor neice
(Who once went to sleep on a golden fleece)
Contributors: | fester, P, Apsley, Roland, Grayman. |
Poem finished: | 17th June 2002. |