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.

Hahaha!

Merci Mon Amis!