Pasty

The Seagull Based on the gothic poem ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allan Poe

Warning, the following poem may contain language which some may find inappropriate… Whilst others find incomprehensible. You have been warned…

The Seagull

Once, upon a seaside dreary, after I scot a pasty cheery,
With many a grunt and furious volume of chomp and gnaw.
After I plodded, hands a clapping, suddenly there came a flapping
as if some bird want to crapping, crapping on my head galore.
“Tis some blue tit” I chuckled, “Flapping whence it came before,
this it is and nothing more”.

Ah, distinctly I remember all the pasties I dismember,
and each golden, crunchy timbre, that rolls echoing down the shore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, when I could ask to borrow
from my mates purses till hollow, borrow from my mate Lenore.
That fat, and ugly donkey who the janners call Lenore,
Shameless here, the skutty whore.

And with each pastry clad diversion, and the runs that will be certain,
Thrilled me, filled me with contents I’ve probably scoffed before.
So that now, before this odd meeting, I sat stringing and squeezing, :
“”Tis Dominos Pizza entreating entry at my chalet door,
Some tasty pizza for eating at my chalet door,
visitors I tots adore."

Presently a smell grew stronger, causing my mind to wonder:
“Dude”, said I, “Or duddette, truly your business I adore,
But the fact is I was crapping, and so gently you came tapping,
whilst I was crapping, and you were tapping at my chalet door,
That I scares was sure I heard you,” Here I open my chalet door –
Twenty-eight empty bottle s of rattler
Twelve pizza boxes,
One broken surf board,
One badly assembled barbecue,
Two million fag butts,
One drunk midget,
One crashed UFO,
exactly half of the Spice Girls,
Fourteen angry space hoppers there… and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long wishing there was more beer in,
Thinking, funky dreams no surf pro had ever dreamed before.
But the rattler bottles were unbroken and the space hoppers went unspoken,
And, for some reason, Terry Wogan, whispered the name ‘Lenore’.
This I bellowed, and an echo mumbled back “Lenore”,
Only this and nothing more.

Back into the chalet stamping, giving the door a right good slamming,
, Soon again I heard a flapping some what louder than before.
“Fuck sake” said I, "Tis some tit head at my window lattice,
Let’s have a butchers and this pain in the ass explore,
And this pain in the ass explore,
Tis wild space hoppers and nothing more.

Open here I broke the shutter, whoops, and with many a shit and farty flutter,
in there stepped a dick head seagull of the northern Cornish shore.
Not a cup of tea made he, not a gold nor chocolate egg laid he,
But, with the continence of a new born baby, proceeded to shit all over my living room floor,
Shat upon my lovely red rug placed upon my living room floor,
Shat and laughed and nothing more.

Then this dumb ass bird defiling, with it’s poop ever higher piling,
By the stupid and rude expression and bandana that it wore,
“”Yo“You deserve a damn good shaven’ I,” I said, “Will smash you with some paving’”
Ghastly dim and dick head seagull rambling from the Cornish shore,
Tell me what your sodding name is from your dirty little maw?”
Yelled the seagull “Never more!”.

Much I bellowed at this un-brainy fowl to hear bollocks so clearly,
Though it’s answer fuck all meaning, “fuck off you utter bore”.
For we cannot help agreeing that no when a sea gull peeing
Ever I’m cursed for bird shit on my living room floor,
Poop or wee all over my living room floor,
From a dick head seagull called ‘Never more’.

And the seagull, a bobble hat a knitting, still is shitting, still is shitting,
All over my X box, my Jessica Rabbit poster and living room floor,
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the candle light, wax a streaming is joining the crap on the living room floor,
And the stain that lies spreading on the chalet floor,
Shall be washed out… Nevermore.

The end