Here I am on a dull Saturday morning, waiting at the bus stop; my brolly and macintosh at the ready and my sandwiches packed.
I thought this week end's topic was splendid - to take a group of word-verification words and weave a poem round them. I did several poems as it was such an enjoyable exercise. What I found was that however you did it there was a strong whiff of inuendo, Maybe it is an age thing - when I was young I didn't even know that the 'f' word existed - and I still can't bring myself to say it. Even the simplest things - like going to the lavatory for example - were always cloaked in a kind of Victorian primness. My father always referred to going to the lavatory (which, by the way, was at the bottom of the garden!) as going to 'see a man about a dog.' Thinking about it, I am sure society in this country was only just beginning to emerge from the Victorian era - when they even put frills around the bottom of piano legs to hide the 'ankles'!
So here is my untitled poem. Make of it whatever you will.
If your boxylls feel all wobbly
and your tabioc is numb,
then send for the mendenti
(use the phone and he'll soon come).
He will tell you you're reldeste,
that your hicabous is dead,
that you need a new combonsu
(that'll put you in the red!)
So, blestios amigos,
hoist your copsibow instead, and
cast your prosions to the four winds.
(Remember - you're a long time dead!)