Nine hundred and fifty four years ago,
On this very day ,
There we were, Orchi and I,
Sitting on Hastings beach,
Minding our own business,
Just eating some pork pies.
Me drinking my whisky,
WITHOUT WATER!
Orchi drinking his sherry.
I was trying to explain to Orchi
The meaning of
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia,
While He was trying to say
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
We looked out to sea,
There approaching were these boats
Loaded with men,
All had swords and spears,
And one had a bow and arrow.
Behind us horses were galloping,
They came to us on the beach.
Harold was there,
He asked if he could have a pie,
Orchi declined,
Saying “Pigs will fly
Before I release a pie!”
He pointed into the sky
And said to Harold,
“See that flying pig!”
I had always told Orchi
That pointing was rude,
And in this case,
It was dangerous!
As Harold fell from his horse
An arrow in his eye.
And that was the day
That Orchi said to me
“Give me a scotch, without water!”
Out of the kindness of my heart
I gave Orchi a SMALL scotch.
He fell to the ground
Shouting “Alas poor Yorick
I knew him well, fill up the walls
With your English dead Romeo”
From that day Orchi and context
Have never been the same,
And water always goes in his scotch.
This poem was on a previous site that Orchi and I used to inhabit before it closed down and we found MPS.