One ode offering this week - the other's on "The Apotheosis," a more sombre piece of verse than here.
Alexed said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
A Lie-in King walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of AB morn
He threw great Overalls far and nigh
Of Castle poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the Mad 50s run
To see their crazy poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a Trollish weed,
I said to him - Alexed disagreed;
He said Fair Alba had no JD hand
In spreading Petals and flowers tall and fair
Through boxtops and Meg and Naomi land,
Flipped and Switched by Sibton and Nungate everywhere:
The Troll has not any shining red flower,
But only idiocy in his tiny power.
And then Lie-in King stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his Slinky-Kate legs and roared for joy
Because the Nonna sun was shining down:
He said he was a little cat, a tiny furry boy
And would not work for any Trollish clown:
Only for Lady Alex clad in her imperial gown
A butler, valet and ‘gator guard, the keeper of the feline crown
The fuzz-ball ran and laughed behind a Jogger bee,
And danced for rowan’s ecstasy.
Crazy and wild Poppies, can we have fifty? we said
Knowing there are no Trolls around to ABberate
This weekend of Papaver rhoeas red when we honour the dead
Our didoat thirst though is so bibblebub great
Mad Clubbers, we’d rather imbibe Mamya’s mellow tailcocks
To honour our friends with Viking Vimto rather than poppy-locks.