What kinda hoop-jam is this ?
What kinda tank farm?
Where wordsmiths, witches
Medicine doctors with buzz-saws,
dictionaries, testaments
mild potions
and roget's cheatwords,
attack you, maul you, paw you,
fuss you over with what’s your own,
Put coldhands on your thermals,
And turn your lights on,
When you practice martial moves in the dark.
What kind a joint is this?
Where monsters, punsters,
Retired hipsters,
Friendly trolls and lock-jawed lobsters
Shine lights on your bongo drums
As you pound out solos alone
In your room, under the blue lagoon.
What kinda shed is this where
The cows don’t come home
But wander out
And mulch the moonlight
with nervous vigour,
Curse the world,
Leave the moss undisturbed
And flocks of gulls
Flip and dance in the cross-wind
Looking for a war of words
Where there should be no words
But just war alone.
What kind of shelter is this?
Where enigmatic singers
Harp on forgotten notes
And bygone woes
And pass the dutchy
'pon the left hand side.
What kinda hoop-jam is this?
THE END