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 
Escherly checkers, 
For all Novum Scotum
Quite rondelay mooted, 
And dun as they'd first arrived.

- Dave Mitchell

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