The Dinner Party


Nothing good ever comes from a garden

Only pale serpents and overripe fruit

God himself not much of a game warden

Jerk his on pego he’ll unsheath a toot


A cup of Port in the hand of Falstaff

A dragonfly drowns in my consomme

The chambermaid’s the wait-staff

The tablecloth, soaked with rum, en flambe


I reach for my grandfather’s revolver

The one engraved with the goldleafed griffin

Sous chef flashes her enormous cleaver

My resolve, and my bowels, start to loosen


Twas then that I jumped to a conclusion

With irresistible rich auburn hair

I kissed every false flag and illusion

For dessert ate a delightful eclair


After supper retired to the study
Smoked an assortment of quite useless plants

The Bishop! what an old fuddy-duddy

Under his vestments suspendered pants


Then we played an asinine parlour game

Something dull involving a pineapple

Earl of Lincoln one each round all the same

Or, wait, maybe it was a crab-apple?


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