Our Leather-Bound Archipelago Swept Clean
Returning to my spawning-grounds
With pockets full of lime
I stumbled on the burial mounds
The ancient, sacred burial mounds
I'd heard about in rhyme
As one who, lacking purpose, creeps
With biscuits and a brush,
I happened on the charnel heaps
The lonely, wistful charnel heaps
Where beauty lacks a blush
For beauty needs the absent care
That cherishes the blame
And chances on the secrets rare
The barely-fathomed secrets rare
That Chaucer saw in Fame
When, on the icy mountain's brink
With snowfalls all around,
He spilt a single drop of ink
A staining, running drop of ink
Of pattern quite profound
That pattern symboilses Fate
Yet cannot be construed
By those who only pullulate
Who dimly, faintly pullulate
In fashions strange and rude
While aping those who went before
With walnuts and a whip
And scarcely red in tooth or claw
An aching, gouging tooth or claw
That scars the pouting lip
Returning from my spawning-grounds
With pack bereft of loam
I hastened from the burial mounds
The dubious, plastic burial bounds
That Fulham has at home
The journey, once so full of pride
With withal my scheme
Was now a tiresome, pointless ride
A bruising, teasing pointless ride
Unworthy any dream
| Contributors: | Roland, Apsley, Chevalier, Bex. |
| Poem finished: | 7th September 2005 by Apsley. |