Another Spooner-inspired scribbling…
Maine’s Jews sing,
“Pipping my dinky in the pondry poet”
Which, whilst it might sound thus,
is not a euphonium.
There’s a low-ethic papoose on the moose;
pilty with grimy rations,
pealing my stome ideas.
Gnomes of poot and France ents.
These were my challenges,
grisen to voraciously.
He’s quite never when he puts his clog into it.
Digressing, this home is not about Pim –
it’s about the reverent, and the irreverent
and, dare I say it?
Nothing to see here.
(I’m expecting a visit from the poetry police very soon)