The Spoonbill Generator

Laundresses, Basements, and Pythons

Gullible wretches, so polished and pure [Surlaw]

That they cannot see a wide-open door, [Apsley]

Or feel the fatigue in a dog-eared macaw [Surlaw]

How can they be so subtle and sure?! [Apsley]

Their hand is no cleat, their footing no claw [Surlaw]

Whereon could tug the hands of the poor [Apsley]

Yet why stay silent? [Surlaw]

Why not then invent [Apsley]

A half-penny mask [Surlaw]

Carved from a tusk [Apsley]

Whittled in stone [Surlaw]

By old Judge Crask [Apsley]

Baked in the bone [Surlaw]

And set on a stand [Apsley]

With civet and musk? [Surlaw]

Hideous python, squeezing my neck, [Apsley]

Dogging my foot, each turn of the trek [Surlaw]

Shunning my call, ignoring my beck [Apsley]

How can it be so stubborn and stern? [Surlaw]

Holding on tight, despite every burn, [Apsley]

Dogging my thorax each trek of the turn [Surlaw]

Yet why not slough off? [Apsley]

Discharge, with a cough [Surlaw]

That shakes off the roof, [Apsley]

The rabid, the rough [Surlaw]

By diamond-heads picked [Apsley]

The head or the hoof [Surlaw]

Stands by to be ticked [Apsley]

In fashion unplanned [Surlaw]

By sturdy Macduff [Apsley]

Voluble Duchess, her polish and poise [Surlaw]

Are only found second to noise upon noise [Apsley]

Less than aloof as she shatters her toys [Surlaw]

How can she be so sacred and stained? [Apsley]

How did she cope with the rust that remained [Surlaw]

When the oceans swept in and the neighbours complained? [Apsley]

Contributors: Surlaw, Apsley.
Poem finished: 10th October 2002.