MS FOUND IN A GUINNESS CAP
It was a good day in the Highlands,
Where the pipes ran truer than runes
In keening a nosegay so blue
That even the doldrums were muffled,
So soft that I looked for an oarsman's cloak
But surfaced with only a small
Beminted tin of adnoidal wind
That levied its deckage in all
The hues of some Paganite hymn
To a Neochristic pandorum.
A brassy token of Menchlichkeit,
It breached as "Curiously tangly,"
And the pastiches within
Smelled of unoriginal sin
And the vagueness of Black Briary;
They were corky of sweetness,
Bright-lit as Powys,
Gravenside grey on the tongue
Neither distilled to nilness nor
Countably there, just furrily
Nathanic (of Coney).
I curtsied an eyebrow,
Wished them mauve-speed
With a lashing of tongues loosed in the air;
Sent them by carob, return by nabob,
To Rancifer in the farthest north;
Awaited the shuttle, the looming cuttle,
For a noncicle with purple Isis.
And sure as bullocks will tarry in mud,
And sludge is the hammer of Cain,
The beasties came round in
A Mobioid way, cancelled like
For all Novum Scotum
Quite rondelay mooted,
And dun as they'd first arrived.
- Dave Mitchell