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Last Train to Gallimaufry
The fireman fed the engine well
The train moved at full split.
It trailed its smoke across the land
And whistled quite a bit.
All this was rather odd because
There were no tracks for it.
Two travellers watched the passing view:
A yak, in sporting cleats,
And a rock who looked quite fetching
In a dress with tartan pleats.
They sat in awkward silence,
Upon green leather seats.
With a crack, the door flew back,
The yak gave half a shout:
In strode a little anchovy,
"Good Sirs, you shouldn't pout!
Come now, you mustn't be so glum,
What can we talk about?"
So saying he climbed upon the seat
And lit a thin cheroot.
"Socially irresponsible,
But I couldn't give a hoot!"
"You Sir!" to the yak he said
What's with the fancy boots?"
The Yak, of course, took great offence
And turned his head away,
Then Anchovy the asked the rock
Of what he had to say.
The Rock said what a rock says best,
In a stoic, rocky way.
So as the trip progressed along,
The anchovy took the floor:
He told them of the foamy sea,
Of bluebells on the shore
Of how he mined for opals
And how he won the war.
The Snark appeared, but briefly so,
"Present your tickets, please"
He took them with his flippers
And clipped them with his knees.
As quickly as he'd come, he was gone,
Back to the rose-red sea.
The anchovy resumed his monologue
From where he'd stopped before:
He talked of how to mend a fig
and the aroma of a door,
Of pots and pans and icecream vans
And whether pine trees snore.
By now the Yak could take no more.
He rosed and cleared his throat:
"Good Sir", he said, "You've lost the plot!"
"Here, Rock, hold my coat!"
He then recited a poem
Apparently learnt by rote.
◊◊◊
The Yak & Rocky.
T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.
And there the Yak and Rock did sit
Beside the sea and knitting eggs.
They were wearing all their swimming kit
And bronzing one another's legs.
They watched some twit of the finest grade
A vorpal sword held in his hand,
Knick himself with the flailing blade
And collapse upon the sand.
As in ashen shock he lay,
The Yak and Rock, with all due care,
Pushed his vorpal sword away
And shaved off all his hair.
Knit one! Perl one! Knit one! Perl one!
The knitting needles fairly flew
And as they flickered in the golden sun
A lovely toupée grew.
A Yak sized hairpiece on the cards
And one moustache, quite thin.
The Yak looked like Keith Richards,
The Rock like Errol Flynn.
T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.
◊◊◊
The Anchovy was astounded
He clapped his hands red-raw;
Even the Snark reappeared
And brusquely asked for more.
As for the Rock, he blushed a bit:
He'd heard it all before.
Now they were the best of friends
And talked of many things:
Of docks and socks and sticky-tape,
Of cowslips and of string
Of the perils of a face-lift
And how to dance a fling.
They talked away all through the day
'Till all were fairly hoarse.
Though they were all quite hungry
None fancied custard sauce.
So they sent out for a pizza,
No anchovies, of course.
---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---
◊◊◊
For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.
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