The Far Side Of The River
He woke and noticed how it thundered
as lightning visualised the list.
A poet of the great five hundred,
suspended in the morning mist.
Three strikes now hit, illuminating
the swollen river's distant banks.
And there they stood, still hoping, waiting
to join, some day, the noble ranks.
But as he listened to the weather
a squeaky voice was clearly heard,
and like the image of a feather
the wind delivered every word.
'The list of poems is a sham,
it has no merit and no status.
Thus all of us will truly slam
the gist of it which is just flatus.'
And in the river there was bile,
it floated to the surface slowly.
An ambidextrous crocodile
observed and mumbled 'Holy-Moly.'