PiKniK oN iLkLeY MoOr by Justin Walsh
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Once upon a time,
in a land called Half Past Three.
Was it quarter past eleven?
Just time enough for tea.
Drunk two old codgers,
Mr House and Mr Hat.
On a tuffet sat the former,
Whilst the latter on his twat!
The first, could, ’eat a horse,’ said he,
‘Or a chimpanzee.’
If only he could, ‘woo it down,
from its Money Tree.’
Most spindle limbed the latter were,
That gormless nincompoop.
Galumphing round the graveyards.
Slurping sheep’s head soup.
The Egg-man, The Egg-man!
Visited one day,
our intrepid heroes,
Hip Hoopla, Hooray!
Mr House:
‘Please alleviate this boredom,
We beseech of you dear friend.
For each others company,
Is the living end.’
Mr Hat:
‘Most talented you are old bean,
Your fables are divine.
Like the tails of tadpoles,
Caught on a washing line.’
The Egg Man:
A cough to clear his throat did he (cough)
And on his podium,
He dramatised the following,
Elaborating there on.
‘Are you sitting comfortably,
Good then I’ll begin.
Please Won’t you stop your fidgeting?
Ones nerves are quite in shreds .’
‘The Rhapsody of the supercilious eyebrow.
By a brigade called Anon!’
The Egg Man:
He makes mountains out of molehills,
Wearing egg upon his face.
Absent minded, he forgets, his chin,
When he is in disgrace.
Draws attention, his invention,
In a manner, made in haste.
Every cloud is silver lineyed.
Complex complicated space.
‘She speaks, as she finds,‘ she said
The actress to the Bishop.
Don’t count your chickens, till they hatch .
A mud cart or a wedding?
Better late then never ,
Boasted the au pair.
Twist and turns, like curling tongues,
In part time brunettes hair.
You’d go faster, wearing castors.
I knew, early birds and worms.
Pots and kettles, seldom rattle,
Except when backs are turned.
‘Imagine my surprise!‘ he said.
A gift horse, in the mouth
He upped his sticks, right then and there
and caught the bus down South.
‘Impertinent nay rubbish.’
Were are heroes only words.
As that sweet and lovely Egg-man,
They sullied with cold turds.
Well, whatever next, me thinks,
Gadzooks and all that Jazz.
Heaven is for Mergatroid,
Dressed up in Nazi drag!
‘Ere we go my lordships,’
Mergatroid did speak
Then, um’d and ahh’d and um’d, some more.
Which brought us to next week.
Mr Hat:
‘Hurry Mr Mergatroid,
We’ve waited now enough.
Mr House, will lose his temper,
For he’s balanced on a Pouf!’
Mr Mergatroid:
‘Would you gent’s dare fancy,
A rambunctious little Rhyme.
A ditty of a fellow,
Who was a Friend of mine?’
Soliloquised he stepped up then,
With fetlocks flaming Round the hem,
Of oafish patent brougish spats.
And mirrored pear-shaped thinking cap.
Mr Mergatroid:
‘Wonky Aspidistra.
By, Mr Tummnus esq.’
Uncle Salamander, slithered, past the cooked meat
Counter,
To where they hung the freshest joints up by the feet.
He took his parcel neatly wrapped ,
And smiled when he thought of what,
Lay beneath the tissue paper , tightly packed.
Returning sometime later, three skewers on a plate were,
Steaming, succulent and tender, quite palatably peppered,
For any Salamander such as that..
He took his knife and fork then,
Devoured all 3 portions ,
Licked his lips, then did some talking to himself,
‘Now do not think of me as greedy,
For my taste buds don’t deceive me
As there is no splendid morsel
Such as major skewered beef!’
Mr House:
‘I’ve never heard such piffle,
Such plot less absurd rhyme.
Your characters, lack narratives.
Your accents are a crime.’
‘For this you should be punished,
For a sheep as for a lamb.
Mr Hat go fetch a length of rope,
We’ll lynch the bugger now!’
Lo, A Shepard boy, with roguish smirk.
Then wondered at our scene,
Whose name was whispered by the cast,
As ‘Gany-me-e-d-e’s.’
‘Who is this pray tell?’ said they,
‘Besmirch that runner up,
and lay on us I trust dear boy,
Your most sensiblest of work.’
So this lad with jackal eyes,
And teeth of ivory,
Began his story, of thus and that,
In a land called Half Past Three.
He took the deepest breath he could,
Out poured the following verse.
That turned those two, to staccatos,
Shadows of themselves.
Ganymede’s:
‘Moustrapangelica a lullaby.’
He doth quote,
She collects spiders in jars,
In place of pickles.
Never tries to ignore the urge,
Likes how it prickles.
Sitting in a circle in a square,
Practising to whistle.
Dancing in the shade of the day,
Protects her from freckles.
Nightshade, honey, dewdrops,
She eats from the table.
Waits until twilight is drawn,
Stifles a giggle.
Catches a mouse in her hair,
Likes how they wriggle.
The tournament was over,
The winner stood erect,
with a Robin dancing from his throat,
And a tiara on his head!
And so the youth who won the joust
That day,
With lion heart and Gryphons mouth,
Pulled the sword out of the stone you see
With foxgloves for a snout.
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