134. each fix, each hymn, each overshoots

o beast, o man, o murderous muffin,

what would it do (or what woudn’t),

roaming the roads, searching for stuffing,

anything, really, arson or mugging

anarchy cell, a hideout, a pub in

deep in the black, and buried in london,

where the evil, and onerous others,

plot the demise of purveyors of luncheon

muffin, for whom a teapot or two

is never a china or chaser removed,

sits with the scones and he discusses

a plan for a raid on tower of porridge

penny-whistle peeps, but not before in

rushes the room, a commotion, a chorus,

muscles of ham and boiled meat storm in,

upsetting tables, interrupting the pouring

“up with your hands!” shouts bully beef 1,

but nobody can, cause nobody has ‘em,

so they start to butter the lot,

beat up (a little) a strawberry tart

notorious muffin, and scone his side-kick,

make for the back, emergency exit,

slip in the streets, thick, awash in

a sort of reduction, a fog of confusion

muffin decides, the time is now ripe for

storming the tower, stealing the porridge,

sends out a signal, a cucumber sandwich,

to gather the group of rogue tea bandits

guarding the gates are sentries of bone,

inside resides, beef wellington,

within the boxes are possibly prawns,

over it all an aspic is drawn

at three o’clock (or possibly four),

in rushes from each opposite corner,

sandwiches, smoothies, cakes all converge,

smash up the stakes, storm the courtyard

wellington wishes he wasn’t still in it,

but he is charged, and sliced up into

plates that are poured with plenty of gravy,

fed to the mob of assembling pastry

muffin, at last, arrives at the secret

chamber of sweets, or palace of porridge,

discovers that while he finds it in full,

he had forgotten to bring in a bowl

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