A man from Maroc has a tame aspidistra,

He has had it for years it's been said,

Removed from the house of Countess Maharashtra,

The second the old trout was dead.

She'd lived on the banks of the great Brahmaputra,

With the trappings of style and wealth,

Except that she ate naught but boiled solenogastra,

Which she hunted with guile and stealth.

She took up the faith of guru Zarathustra,

Her family thought she was weird,

She modelled herself on the Greek Clytemnestra,

And thus by all men she was feared.

So she studied in depth the great Kamasutra

But with men she would not perform

Resulting in rather to much gyromitra

From sitting bare bummed on the lawn.

This led to bout of acute pyometra,

Both painful and nauseous to smell,

In addition her gut contained long spirometra,

In fact she was like living hell.

So they made her a poultice of hemelytra,

Soaked for hours in Indian wine,

Then stewed with green toads and some fresh arthrogastra

And said 'in three days she'll be fine'.

She emerged from her bed with ten brachelytra

Which followed her all in a trance,

Then announced that from now she was Cleopatra

And led them a merry old dance.

She hummed to the crooning of young Frank Sinatra

And drove round the town in a daze

In a battered and beat-up old green Simca Matra

And the locals just looked on amazed.

Then Rashid appeared humming tala and mantra

And hit the old bat with an axe,

Took money and gold and the green aspidistra,

And bugger inheritance tax.

Once safely ensconced in the depths of Sumatra,

He never moves out of his flat,

Which he shares with a stinking old grey ondatra,

And that, as they say, is that.

Poetry by PedanticBarSteward

Pedanticbarsteward

21.12.06 Front Page

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