Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyy you guys!
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
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Especially:
And then -- oh disaster!
Cruel day! OMG!
She met her poor grandson
And he meeted she.
This made me laugh lots. And I love your rhymes. I enjoyed reading that lots.
Also? The Plucky Schoolgirl=massive win. Are we shipping Terry/Rose or Terry/Tip?
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The Plucky Schoolgirl=massive win.
Oh hooray! You don't know how happy I am no longer to be possibly the only person left alive who's read this book (or to have got to the end of that sentence)! :D
Terry/Tip is my OTP of course, but I'm well up for Terry/Rose, Terry/Lulu or indeed Terry/the entire first form. Also, have decided that Terry will drive an ambulance during WWI.
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(Also need PS icon)
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But OH, I just thought, you'd have to find inspiration elsewhere then wouldn't you. Carry on so. ;)
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Is it bad of me to want you in the job as long as it inspires you to madness like this? Sorry!
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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.
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That's fantastic.
I fear for your brain, but that's fantastic.
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I don't worry about my brain any more, there's quite obviously no help for it now...
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Your poem seems to keep company with Lewis Carroll (or the Beatles) and Harry Graham.
Such lovely details -- the altruistic elephant people, Dame Cup's Volvo, and her anatomical/sartorial peculiarities, young Cup's downside uppedness -- but my favourite stanzas are these: Bunch onions! Late lunch! Sudden change of circumstance overtakes our hero at unlikely moment! Politely particular verse driven beyond its insistent, end-stopping rhyme! Dancing dactyls waltzing us to disaster!
Encore!!!
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Your poem seems to keep company with Lewis Carroll (or the Beatles) and Harry Graham.
Ah, nonsense! How I love it. Edward Lear, Spike Milligan... I was pretty much brought up on a diet of this stuff, which might explain a few things.
*dances with dactyls* (My Native American name)
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The Volvo a fireball,
a terrible shame,
for an innocent Cup Man
and a criminal dame.
DAME.. are you bringing that back then? Jolly good!
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DAME.. are you bringing that back then? Jolly good!
What, the word? I could certainly try. Do you find yourself craving the slang of the past?