The Spoonbill Generator

A Snail Keeps Shop

A Case of Riotous Block

Is worse than a fleet foot

When Mother Tongue's a widow

A base of chicken stock,

Accursed with a beetroot

Is what both we and Sid know

A Face of pallor'd Chalk

Bland as a night-light

Shall be the back of darkness

A trace of hallowed pork

Will stand as a kite might

Defending wisdom's fastness

But fire, let's not forget, is the Great Commander!

Curish mother's milk and corriander,

Dynamite in tow.

Might Dinah know the answer?

Where's the point? We ought to ask a dancer

Balanced on a toe

The Keep of Dolorous Gard

or thwart the gudgeon's love of the Bard

Smitten by a rancid jib

Clean-shaven like the pard

A knotty-pated lout tries hard,

To overcome the block

Rejoice in shadow'd smirk

And all sequestered guile

To manifest the sock

Out-paramour the Turk

With cunning winning smile

More faceless than a clock

A timeless parlour trick

Performed without a mule

To very great applause

A worthless shooting-stick

(except when used for fuel)

(or spearing apple-cores)

Improper social mores.

Manners maketh man (they say)

How I wish they'd go away

Contributors: Roland, Bop, Stacy, TG, jp, KD, P, Shakespeare.
Poem finished: 18th May 1997.