The Spoonbill Generator

Tomorrow Hardly Trying

Above the burning snow

His scabbard in his hand

He sliced the gloomy rainbow

Much thinner than he'd planned

The fault, he knew, was Esther's

(His far from winsome wife)

But none of the investors

Was prepared for civil strife

Their shares, once nicely reckoned

Were now worth less than lead

They'd plummet, every second,

Deep into the red

He checked the winkley futtocks

The cuts were neatly spaced

Across the ancient buttocks

And around the narrow waist.

He always missed his pudding,

From former days gone by;

When scouts were out do-gooding

Beneath a crumbling sky

The shards of rainbow tumbled

On Esther's winsome pate

As all the heavens crumbled

Upon his pudding-plate

And as the sky was falling

He yelled one yell of glee:

Hey! Let's all go bowling!

In far Trincomalee!

Contributors: P, Mick, Roland, TG, Bop, Fifi Moonsprats, Stacy Alexander, Stacy.
Poem finished: 12th January 1997.