[John Whitworth]

Thank you, Lance. I have made an adjustment, though as a poem it is better as it was. Curiously I have discovered a market for cricket poems, though they have to be short as a sportsman's attention span.

[Orwn Acra]

'Twas brillig and the boluses
Of syllabub and burdockpop
Went fizzling in the calphalon,
A pinch of palt-a-malt atop.

Beware the hoi polloi, my boy,
Those rakish riffy-raffy tastes,
Those unsophisticated tongues,
Those portly, pinguefying waists.

Quatorzième at Ledoyen,
He hobnobbed with the cream of creams
To anti-bant and gallivant
Through odds and orts of pastry dreams:

Kue sus, kue sus, pâte à choux
And twee tuile go crunch-a-crunch --
Antoine Carême and Tallyrand
And Madame X are having lunch.

O eudaimonic esculent!
A denizen of chez Ducasse
To snub and sneer and snivel at
The peaky, peckish lower class.


And not a single nonce word!

[John Whitworth]

And which four stanzas go through? They are all excellent.

[Allen Tice]

Johnson, My Beamer 323 S-class only uses a harrow when I help my farmer neighbors. But Bradman's, well, I can't rally blame him, ah...

O eudaimonic esculent!

is panphrastic.

"They are all esculent."

[John Whitworth]

But only Stanley can do a Stanley. Perhaps our transatlantic friends do not know him. Google Stanley Unwin, you fellows.

[Lance Levens]

Frabjous, Orwn!

[Orwn Acra]

Thanks everyone. I didn't realize it is 4 lines too long. I think I shall snip S4's last two lines, combine it with S5's first, and write a new ending. Unless someone has a better idea.

[John Whitworth]

Jesus! Another bleeding Arts man who can't count. Consider Shelley who was a fine chemist or, at any rate, a man who could make a good explosion if he was minded to.

[Lance Levens]

Twas brillig when the cheap du jour
rang from the snout of the Whinnyflure
and all the fizzards of Canemacarry
(even the Beegluns who cheap so nary)
stepped from their hosiers and cheaped: Filure!

which goundled across the Fetid Inane
where the Gab at the Flitties careeshed their tane,
For never before had a Whinnyflure
gauched of his own a la shim: Filure!
The Squarry Malts cried out: Infane! .

Out came the Gab-at-the-Flitties en miss
to halt this influsion, this glave of polliss.
Their pithers went pize and their nabes ka-thunk
When the cormokadruther unfashed his Zunk,
the fizzards lay loozed by the noodling Niss.

[John Whitworth]

Splendid suff, Lance. It reads like a translation from Rimbaud.