CANTERBURY
Aye, tis in my beloved Kent,
That this obsession did begin.
Moreover, in salacious Canterbury,
If me observations are to be met with truth.
Obtuse, you may be, and as a casual observer too, but, oh, not I.
With me own eyes have I seen the dastardly fiend.
And, tis fair to note, that which has no name cannot be.
But, no! I say it can and is, even as I script my tale.
As I walked by the foggy Thames, there within its estuary,
Twas then befell upon me eyes the hellish scene,
Shared in this story I now recite to thee.
Steadily, did I hold in my position.
Steady hands were not.
Prickly-haired, frozen there, as I stood upon that spot.
Ascended, floating above the bog,
As if a puff of smoke.
Eyes were staring from that fog,
Caused me then to choke.
Dare I make the slightest sound,
Or move my head or feet.
Mortified my thoughts if found,
Mesmerized and steep.
Though here I stand before you,
As I whisper of my affair.
Surely, in this venue,
Yours will think me yarn an err.
Whilst true, I cannot validate,
What me eyes did spy that day.
I ask you be dispassionate,
To the words that I do say.
No, tis easy to read in your eyes,
My story resonates not in truism.
Lest I end now, my words, not lies,
Plain to see, your thoughts of yahooism.
