Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyy you guys!

[tadorna]

The Tale of the Gold Eyeball Cup Man

There once was a man
who lived in a cup.
His legs were all yellow,
his down was his up.

His eyeballs were stippled
with orange and gold.
His story is fearful,
and yet must be told.

There came a wild day
upon a wild moor
when elephant people
were feeding the poor,

and Gold Eyeball Cup Man
was having his lunch
of blue string and onions,
done up in a bunch,

when suddenly, oddly,
at twenty past three,
his tooth-pegs exploded
and, terrified, he

ran off to his mother's
who lived in Brazil,
but took a wrong turning,
got lost in Mill Hill.

Oh what will become
of Gold Eyeball Man?
His cup runneth over,
but... so does his nan.

Dame Mother Cup,
a doting old dear,
or so say the foolish,
unwilling to hear

the deeds of that crone,
so horrid to tell,
how she pillaged and punctured,
and poisoned a well.

She drove an old Volvo,
with spikes on the wheels,
she had thorns on her thumbs,
she had spurs on her heels.

One day she went driving
from Barnet to Spode*,
by way of the Ridgeway,
that magical road.

Mother Cup didn't care,
if she went the wrong way,
she cared only for china,
and murder, and may-

hem, rattled along
in her rusty estate,
crashing through gardens
and knocking down gates.

And then -- oh disaster!
Cruel day! OMG!
She met her poor grandson
And he meeted she.

His teeth still exploding
all over his head,
met her craziness, meaning
they're both of them dead.

The Volvo a fireball,
a terrible shame,
for an innocent Cup Man
and a criminal dame.

Today a memorial
graces that spot --
A fine china teacup
with a spiked-up teapot.

THE END


* I am aware that Spode is not in itself a location; I refer to the Spode ceramics factory in Stoke-on-Trent

Comments

[glasmurmel.livejournal.com]

Brilliant! You are such a natural with words of any shape or size. I'm wondering whether your head is just bursting with these gems and they simply spill out of your brain and clunk on the pages all polished and shiny as they are or does it take you a lot of labour to make them this perfect? :)

[sheldrake.livejournal.com]

Thank you! :)

Sad to tell, this sort of thing basically just falls out of my brain whenever I tilt my head slightly -- often at the most inopportune moments. 'Proper' writing, on the other hand, is very much like getting cheese out of concrete.