Yep, I reckon Byron could have done well in this competition.

Some of you may have seen a version of this in KIN the on-line magazine. I've supercharged it with rhymes, perhaps at the expense of the poetry. I would welcome Orwn's opinion on that.

Sweet Albert

Antic and frantic and antediluvian,
Monument massive, impassive, magnificent,
Kitsch which is rich as the Inca Peruvian,
Omnium-gatherum, omnibenificent,

Fashioned with passion, a festival sculptural,
Multiform, vermiform, multidimensional,
Menhir memorious, mass-multicultural,
Scorning conformalist classic conventional,

Solemn sepulchral, a sombre funereal
Fief for the grief-stricken Empress of India,
Dateless as sorrow and weightless as Ariel,
Scion of iron when weather wears windier.

Work is the theme and the dream is sensational,
Magic, majestical phantasmagoria,
Seeking the skies in a guise inspirational,
Votive, emotive, VICTORIA GLORIA.

Dunno about the poetry, John, since I didn't see the original, but as to the rhymes, you've unquestionably packed 'em in. If I spot a spot where you might be able to cram one more in, I'll let you know, but don't hold your breath.

"VICTORIA GLORIA"

Perhaps to impart some sense you need Victoriae gloria otherwise the two words mean very little but then that is in keeping with the rest of the poem.

Still, you have accumulated many strange rhymes, which presumably was the sole object.

Marcus, I think that coming up with strange rhymes is indeed the object of this exercise, although I agree that this does not necessarily preclude meaning.

I hadn't spotted it before, but I like your lemurial piece.

No, Marcus, I think VICTORIA GLORIA is better (vocative, don't you know; the whole thing is vocative, as it were)) and, for what it's worth, the lines make perfect sense.

Dear me, a trip around some Wren churches today seems to have inspired unusual rudeness. Do forgive me.

“Help, nurse, it’s my balls,”
said the bells of St Paul’s.
“You want geriatrics,”
said the bells of St Patrick’s.
“That’s genito-urinary,
dimwit,” said Canterbury.
“Get out your tackle,”
sighed the Mormon Tabernacle.
“Are these varicella?”
asked Santiago de Compostela.
“Complicated gonorrhoea,”
said the Hagia Sofia.
“Take ten centiliters
twice daily,” said St Peter’s.
“Stop shtupping your Mom,”
said the great Notre Dame.

Dear me, Brian. What WILL Lucy think? Utterly disgraceful.

Circumcision Cove
 

(This is an unnamed cove of Penobscot Bay, Maine. It is a safe harbor, but its entrance is so small that getting a boat into it is “about as tight a scrape as a circumcision”, according to the late Allen “Mike” Brown, of Northport, Maine.)

Offshore the storm-molested and rockbound coast of Maine,
The sailor can be bested, and never sail again;
And once the sea has got him, you’ll find his sodden bones
Decaying on its bottom, in care of Davy Jones.

So when Nor’easters blow, I make a quick escape
To a tiny cove I know, so tight my keel will scrape.
It has a narrow entry whose transit takes precision.
It’s scorned by yachting’s gentry; I’ve dubbed it “Circumcision”.

It’s waves will make you woozy; discomfort is the norm.
But beggars can’t be choosy seeking refuge from the storm.
Each time the sky turns leaden, or if my hull gets stove;
You’ll find my vessel headin’ to Circumcision Cove.

Circumcision Cove
 

Sorry, double posted ... so I did a little cutting.