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.