An epic poem which began in December 1997 and grew out of all proportions as it was passed to and fro by email. With a somewhat shaky start it soon settles down into a gripping tale of sorcery and chivalry, culminating in an exciting and unpredictable showdown.
The authors are of the opinion that this is one of the finest pieces of poetry ever written in the English language, and believe that after reading it in its entirity few will disagree.
Hello there, you floppy old trout farmer.
Still got a weasel bunged up yer jacksy?
Must be warm and smelly by now.
Give your horse a good sniffing from me,
'Tis a fair frog up the gibbet crank.
My lodestone weeps barleycorns and the throstle sings an eery mire.
The gillie's up the steeplejack and the vestry is full of tapestries.
How are your grunions?
Foaming at the gusset,
Guinevere conspired, sentinel truffles oregami-ly,
shutting out the vestry appleby whiskered shaun-from-dundee lids,
my grunions have turned to mustard.
"Cheep cheep cheep!"
My earwig-splice nettles! My gooseberry frolic beeswax.
Whither shall the oxen fenster?
And from whence gather ye maidens fair
For the rite of gorse?
Heed the crone,
Oh, heed the crone, thee merry jigsters, three.
Merry jigsters, throned on nettles,
spliced the crone with shoals of kettles,
clung like clagnuts, spun like spaniels,
slung with slumber, paid Paul Daniels,
twenty shillings, bold as beetroot,
decked in doilies,
shrouded in a leaf of wonder at receipt of his
And yea, beneath the lining thereof
clasping tightly on his Molotov
cocktail, lurked the dreaded weasel
in belief that he could easil -
ly create a conflagration
Mightier yet than Larry Grayson.
Light the fuse!
Do not refuse!
This suit must burn ... burn ... burn ...
Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Next
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