Saturday 17 September 2011

Lay Grouter, Two Fingers True

He stepped by the tree to encounter directly
A weasel with marbles for eyes
With a ledger composed of tedious marks
All made from the bile of flies

Seeing Grouter, the weasel he paused in his stride
And warned him of the fun to be had
In the town where the wine was dreadfully strong
And the girls were so terribly bad

He accorded young Grouter a thin glassy stare
And opined that he was just the sort
If accorded the chance at devilish glee
There was little that he might be taught

The weasel declared that if Grouter were wise
(A possibility the weasel well doubted)
He would best turn about and return to his cave
Advice that our Grouter then flouted

The young man then asked about the best place
Where a young man might do as he please?
Where a young man might meet an experienced girl
And by chance then might pick up a disease

Exclaiming disgust at the thought of such waste
The weasel then bade him most sweetly
To instead find a book, with numbers within
Where sums could be added most neatly

The pleasures in life lay, the weasel averred
In numbers most suited by occasion
And not in the flesh where idle men root
But in a well turned quadratic equation

What sort of fellow, fair Grouter demanded
Would pass by a party invited
Where gaiety came, wrapped up in fine silk
And instead in grey numbers delighted?

With a snort like a pig upon losing its tail
The weasel espoused his derision
Of drinking and jesting and fine summer nights
(But mostly of fleshly incision)

He explained nonetheless, with his nose in the air
His grey skin in dire need of good ointment
That he was more or less possessed of no soul
And was therefore a chartered accountant

Young Grouter recoiled in horrified fear
And fled in swift terrified flight
For in all the land could be found no worse a wraith
Than those that could drain all delight

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