Poetry

Friday 27 November 2020

Octopodimore roundabout

 Octopodimore roundabout

Is just about what an Octopus shouts

When he thinks it is too busy on the roads

While he is eating Spaghetti

While talking to a toad


And this kind of activity can be a dangerous thing

Especially if the toad begins to sing

Because like Pavarotti he loves to sing of things

That get his gilgotti and make his microwave ping

So he replies it's like Spaghetti junction round here

And then a Baloney Sandwich suddenly appears

And says Bologna, Bologna, well what'd I hear?!

Stop talking Baloney, you know there's nobody near

And he don't count - hey keep your hands on the wheel!

Mr Octopody you're making me feel kind of queer

Well I can't blame you, said the toad

I'm always telling him to keep his eyes on the road

Eyes on the road? Which eye may I ask yer, asked the spider

Which ever one you can, answered the eight legged outsider

Hey man, why are ya trying to push in here?

Can't you see there's plenty of room for the four of us?!

No five, cried the Beer, well would you look at the head on that said the toad

Then the Octopus started sipping it, the sandwich said "Mind the road!"

Don't drink and drive cried the beer, I've too much to live for cried the spider in fear

So now you're afraid of a little alcohol, hey man I'm no light weight I just want to keep my head clear

Well its too late for that said the heavyweight boxer, I'm finishing my dinner plate

Then I'm driving to Uttoxeter, you can't be serious Said the Octopus

Yes I am now my gloves are off, I'm not pulling any punches

Hang a left here said the toad with a moan,

No take a right, said the beer in barotone

"Well I thought I was the only one with a voice so deep!"

"Be quiet everyone the Octopus is asleep"

At the wheel! cried Baloney, well it makes me feel lonely

Boy said the Beer I must stronger than I knew

The heavyweight said who do you think you're talking to!

Then he started a fight in the back, but before it got bad

The car had gone off track onto the hard shoulder

Where chips flew off the block

And they came to a stop

Would you like fish with that?

Asked the little chief,

And then the line, like the front tyre, went flat

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