When I was slanker than today
and knew the cubes of Rubik,
I sought with merry roundelay
the films of Stanley Kubrick.
If I had but a snatter then
of what would comeround soonly,
I'd cash up all my while and when
beneath the skylit moonly.
But I was bumford loud indeed
and never sought the knowing,
I wondered if my plight could tell
just where this poem's going.
It could go dwight and yet repine
within the skrint of reason
It might just end without sassoon
just like Guy Fawkes's treason.
(Written for the nonsense IP last year. Didn't bother posting it. Just found it scribbled on an envelope. I quite like the sound of it so I'll give it a chance. Should it be saved for the nation? Remember, your vote counts!)