Fourth of the seventh and where’s my present?

Fourth of the seventh,

where’s my present?

I’ve gone to ground,

And wandered around.

I’d thought that you’d reworded my sound.


I’ve sung to the trees,

Shook off the leaves.

Now can’t you tell me please?


I’m giving you presence,

With undulating sentence.

Auspiciously serendipitously pernicious.

Those sounds Vulgate,

That even gyrate.

The classics as God intended.


It’s got no clause,

Nor a resting applause,

Just teeth knashing and grinding.

No wonder what’s more,

That these fields we adore,

Should be left for those wanting much more


Not for child’s to see,

Or take their parents from thee,

And merrily go grinning at me.


Your space and your cars,

Your never mind r’s.

Your right back remembering the Fars.

Moira was woke,

But Shelley was broke,

And her hair sat golden and curly.

Her breasts begged why’s,

Stairing the skies.

Don’t ask me to be propagating the lies.



It’s part of the course,

To expect the far worse.


Blessed be to the father.



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