A saint is free to choose.
Telamons to rhyme with bronze,
Or telamones to rhyme with ponies,
Not that rhyme’s the thing these days.
Your curly tail was an unspoken question
What kind of Funk and Wagnall word is that?
You were a pink enigma when I poked you
And when, shaded by flat-headed telamones,
I depoked you,
When I debagged you, Piggles
Here at The Hermitage,
You were still the enigmatic pink pigling that no-one loved.
You with your pink
Eyes, pink nose, pink ev’rything
Quivering, blancmange-like, in the desert breeze
How pink you were for a
How nesh you are, my pet. I spoke aloud.
The telamones listened and agreed.
I saw you view with maidenly alarm
Those granite hunks with eggs like ostriches’
And when I asked if you could you telamon
When you saw one, I fancied you loved puns,
Bad puns, as much as I once did, before glum death,
That editor who cuts puns from the page,
Gave the quietus by which you were cured,
and I was cured of puns,
Well , almost!