Inchcock’s Doze, Prompted this Little Prose
Old Inchie fell asleep,
His nocturnal dreaming was so deep,
He managed as least, an hour of sleep,
He woke up, a quivering mental heap!
Here are the few bits, his memory managed to keep.
I was being pursued, by a mob, so violent and profligate,
Through corridors, offices all in an abandoned state,
They fired guns at me, I wondered what is my fate?
Then came across, a securely locked gate!
“Hello,” I thought, “You’ve had yer lot, mate!”
They caught me up, one with a tattoo on his forehead,
“Death to Inchcock, He must be bled”, it said,
Other’s followed on, I was surrounded,
But it was them, that became dumbfounded!
They removed their helmets, and put spectacles on,
One said: Ayup, he’s a right odd one!
I revealed and flashed my furuncles at them,
I squeezed the biggest boil, the pus you couldn’t stem!
The purulence peppered into their faces,
Couldn’t have done a better job, if it was faeces,
They all ran off and were gone!
But the gang may come back, so to be sure,
I thought I’ll batter my way through this door,
I used my chin to batter my way through, why, I’m not sure,
But I remember, it was bloody sore!
I got outside, I was so elated,
Success? Surely this for me isn’t’ fated?
Victory for me? I was addlepated!
Out I climbed, and fell off of the roof!
Off to the hospital, to get medicated.
To the operating theatre, I was taken,
The anaesthetist smiled as he grabbed me by the neck,
As I saw the writing on his hat
And, I thought “Oh, flipping ‘eck!
And that was the end of that!
Inchcock was under the influence of liquid codeine, morphine sulfate, several pints of Strongbow cider, a swig of Dettol, and a bottle of Domestos lemon bleach.
But his suicide effort failed, so he wrote this ditty instead.
Merci Mon Amis!