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)
There’s a moose let loose in the hoose.
He’s elking ‘imself to dessert (mousse, of course).
He’s such a deer, despite being rather bullish.
His predilect poetic form is streaming his unconsciousness;
enematic rhyme schemes spawning circular symbolism.
He’s the shape of grey; a jelliful mass of contractions –
a joyful jiggle in the jungle (if you get my drift) –
‘not to mention’ a gregarious giggler (you didn’t read that).
He’s a masterful mosher of metaphor –
a minister of mimicry, an all-round all rounder.
And occasionally, his style rubs off on me.
(Not a euphemism)…