The Spoonbill Generator

Enough To Warrant Onions

In praise of whelks, I roam the moors:       [Apsley ]

(As they in praise of me)       [Roland ]

The beauty of the Great Outdoors       [Beefy ]

Is lost, beneath the sea       [Roland ]

Where cuttlefish and pilchards roam       [Beefy ]

In search of who-knows-what       [Roland ]

And seldom, from its lowly home,       [Apsley ]

Can mark the very spot       [Roland ]

Where Ralph from all his fancies flew       [Apsley ]

(As had his aunt before)       [Beefy ]

And then embraced the clerihew       [Apsley ]

While counting back from four       [Beefy ]

To three, and thence to fifty-nine       [Roland ]

By way of long division       [Beefy ]

And reading up a nifty line       [Apsley ]

To purge his pure precision       [Roland ]

And thus, in sooth, we readily concur       [Apsley ]

The cauldron's not been made that we can't stir       [loaf ]

Contributors: Apsley, Roland, Beefy, loaf.
Poem finished: 19th April 2005 by Beefy.