h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

It’s time to rhyme, it’s time to prime
The balladeering pen
It’s time to stir the nonsense pot
Of Grimley once again

So pull the dusty curtains back
And peer into the gloom
Let’s hope Recumbentman and Chai
Will turn up rather soon

Now as I said, the lines I’ve read
Recalled but only dimly
Confused am I, I wonder why
They’ve made a game of Grimley

Transferred into the games room
It seems a little rough
But who’s to blame, it’s not a game
It’s grimly serious stuff

Above the Pig and Pullit shop
There are (or used to be)
The offices of Plank and Poles
Scaffolding Company

Where Mr Pole and Mr Plank
Had based for three decades
Their business building scaffolding
For Grimleys building trades

Though Plank was dead (he choked upon
A Pig and Pullit roll)
The scaffolding continued but
It’s now being done by Poles

But how, I hear you fail to ask
Does one make Pig and Pullit?
A Grimley treat for those who eat
You take a pig, and pull it

Did I create this nonsense for
The sake of cheesy puns?
I ask you please, would you put cheese
In pig and pullit buns?

And what of Pole, whilst on a roll
With pig and pullit butter
He’s dealing with a customer
Who needs to fix the gutter

Her name is Bridget Twiddleditch
She wants to gild the steeple
A generous donation for
The sake of Grimley people

She regularly calls to re-
Negotiate the price
He’s so polite and helpful that
She often calls him twice

But not today, she’s sensing there’s
A change to his demeanour
As bold as Mr Pole of old,
Polite but slightly meaner

“But times have changed” he tells her
“Please indulge me if you will
The steeple job is nine years old
You’ve yet to pay the bill”

Her skin, once green takes on a sheen
Of red, it’s not her fault
A ghastly curse upon her purse
Has caused her to default

“You’ll get your cash, I keep a stash
In the freezer where my ice is
But I, like you, fell victim to
The global banking crisis”

“You have, Miss T, my sympathy”
The scaffolder cajoles
“I cannot work for at the Kirk
You also have my poles”

Miss Twiddleditch, she doesn’t want
The nickname Ebeneezer
So off she goes to fetch the cash
She’s hidden in the freezer

Zero degrees, behind the peas
And a solitary sprout
She finds the tin, with money in
Is money now without

Her secret only told to Pole
Was otherwise intact
So who’s been in and robbed her tin
Perhaps her phone was hacked

Well, that's a nasty thing to find
Congealed within your freezer
Your box of cash, your secret stash,
Gone! Taken by some geezer!

It’s true, not nice, to find in ice
Of money you’re relieved
But worse would be the cold remains
Of he who would have thieved

Oh dearie me, oh dear oh dear
The twitch of an addiction
I'd thought was healed, upon me stealed,
The Grimley Moer addiction!
She's quite the bitch, but she's an itch
That needs a thorough itchin'.

And Snockerty's return will set
The balladeering bar
So high I'll somehow have to get
My game back up to par.

Around the church at Grimley,
Scaffold poles all green with age
Await the gold of heroes bold
The Dandy and the Sage

So what’s to say of good old Blay
And what became of him?
I don’t know, I was hoping Chai
Would like to fill us in

Maybe the green skinned heroine
Could find another suitor
Perhaps she might try dating sites
Does she have a computer?

It’s possible the Dandy is
Returning as we speak
Away for years or maybe, being
Grimley, just a week

And how absurd, there was a bird
Which nested in his nose
The Ventral Snaith, the slimmereels
Now what became of those?

It’s so perverse, this multiverse
What’s next? You never know
It’s hard, I tried (it’s not, I lied)
To let the old beast go

It could be time this Grimley rhyme
Retired in all its’ glory
And those whose minds can’t help but rhyme
Could start another story?

And not just scaffold poles are green,
For greenish is the hue
That stains the brains of Grimley's bards
(Who are her readers too.)
We notice there's a marked lack
Of people in the queue
To take up pen and enter then
The Grimley fogs anew,
May it befall who hears the call
To bid their bed adieu
And spend some sleepless hours as
They wonder what to do
To gather all these gobbets up
And boil them in a stew
To feed the hungry ballad-starved
(Who'd rather fast, it's true)
And draw again from fog and fen
A revamped Grimley crew.

So let us not be faint of heart
Let's turn not from the task
But timely tighten all the threads
And, when the time comes, bask
In Grimley's golden glory as
The kirk-spire gleams again,
When Alidander's mighty quest
Will not have been in vain
But homeward lead the Flergal Flea
Bound in a golden chain,
To claim his lilac coiffured bride
And board her wedding train.

(I've done as I suggested and
I've burned the midnight candle.
Alas the greenish brain cells find
It's all too much to handle.
My balladeering reflexes
Are somewhat less than frisky,
"And so to bed" as Esspeeps said,
And I say "Where's the whiskey?")

Young Alidander (he's the lad
We've mostly known as Dandy)
Is lost in distant Tir-na-Nogue --
That's bad, he'd come in handy.

Pehaps by now he's lost his youth
In the hooks of a hungry cougar,
Or lost at least a wobbly tooth
To tarry Tir-na-Nougat.

We saw him last survive the blast
Of Tir-na-N'Ogre's moaning,
A tale of endless misery
That left our hero groaning
And wishing there was Wye-Fye or
A way of mobile phoning.

His story's stuck in Tir-na-Nogue
With Blaggerty behind him.
So, when I've had my cupper tea,
I'm on my way to find him.

A load of puns,
But just in funs

My father told to me

We went for buns
And lovely ones
We had with cups of tea

A doughty knight bears into view
And clamours for attention;
He tells of mighty feats he'll do
And calls himself Sir Chengian.

If anything you need to know,
Or want a quick reminder,
To furthest cyberspace he'll go:
The ultimate lore-finder.

He has enormous google eyes,
With yahoos he can strive;
He went in Alta Vista's guise
Way back in ninety-five.

And that's the way it peters out
With whimpers, not with bangs.
The door on drunken hinges swings
And hollowly it clangs.

This thread was dead, Chaiwallah said,
What ails your drunken door?
From fog and fen seek out the pen
As we have done before
To sail the choppy ballad seas
Of grimmest Grimley Moer,
And see our mangled metaphors
Remix the lays of yore.

A gentle knight was pricking on
The plane to Madagascar
Y cladd in mighty armes, and in
His baggage was a cask or
Two of rather tasty Spanish sack.
He said, "I think I'll ak her
If she with me will wedded be.
I'll broach it as a masquer."

The maiden in the window seat
Coughed lightly for attention:
"Ahem--I hope it isn't rude--
I simply have to mention--
That rapier between your knees
Must be some contravention?"

"What's that you say?" He stuffed away
The weapon indicated.
"An antenna is what that is--
It's use is regulated."