Lunk: I know you can do it, Gong. I've gone and got it wrong today. I am going off to lie down.
Anima: Yes, Gong, my love, rally round. Play up, play the game, as the English love to say.
Gong: I've never heard them say it, only you, my dear. But if you won't have a go till I have, it behoves me to lead the way.
Anima: Yes. Hoof off and do it.
Gong: I am hoofing and await not on the order of my hooves.
Lunk: You'll trip over them! And don't make a meal of it!
.................................
Though I am past a best-before, I'll try
to endure 'em, lines tangling my best trot,
worse than spaghetti junction. Ja, mein Gott!
Brought down past all true function I will lie
bedded in tomatoes, while peppers fly
to sneeze me and old hob tickles me hot.
Yahoop! I have a burn upon my bott!*
I leap up to the moon but catch at sky.
When you're in a stew or a stir-fry pan
think on the fates which twist you in their thrall,
as to whether you're Take-Out or a Man
(...non-specific - sex, planet, devotion...)
and stir yourself before herbs cover all.
Thyme waits for no sentient being. Just scram!
...................................
*varient of butt.
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
