To Your Abiding Toadstools
A granite sheet does not get crumpled,
Laid across a flower-bed
It can stop the flowers from getting rumpled
When holding down your late-great head
Or so my Uncle Ernest said
For Uncle Ernest knew his onions
Though he oft forgot their names
And would smear them on his bunions
Making major health-food claims
Until they killed him dead
The killing was not meant as mortal
Kombat; more Street Fighter-type
When you get sucked into the portal
You can already hear the hype
That caused the pain within his head
Contributors: | Apsley, loaf, asdf, TG, Irene, Karin, Ethetran, Beefy. |
Poem finished: | 16th March 2004 by Anon.. |