Be there e'er a beast so foreign
by Margaret Kollmer
Who dare to hang a ragged sporran?
This one has a reply:
Aye, indeed, there's one so bilt
Indebted, yea, up to the kilt.
How haut couture the writing clique
Who pen their columnies tongue in chic.
How wise the student of the future
To operate with an eye to the suture.
Do not confuse a double dactyl
With a rhythmic terradactyl!
How maketh he to lay her down
When there be padlocks on her gown?
The gossip midst her seeming humour
Has a wily sense of rumour.
The trench-coat for the wartime dug-out
Now gets worn to hide the pig-out.