Well, how about this?
The Day of Doom
Death’s the rootstock, who’s the bloom?
Death’s the webster, who’s the loom?
Death’s the bride, but who’s the groom?
In a souk of old Khartoum, far beneath the traffic’s boom (all its cheerful vroom-a-vroom), in the inspissated gloom of the silent catacomb, stinking with a strange perfume, offspring of a dreadful womb slither pallid from the tomb, seeking someone.
Ah, but whom?
In a pretty English coomb (wild dog-roses, shoots of broom), trembling from his heart’s simoom, Whitworth cowers in his room, waiting for the Day of Doom.
‘Mr Whitworth, I presume?’
‘No, that’s just my nom-de-plume.’
‘Mr Whitworth, I presume?’
(Freeze frame. Into close-up. Zoom.) ‘MR WHITWORTH, I PRESUME?’
‘No indeed. My name's McGough.’
‘Really? Sorry, I’ll be off.’
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