I Say, Carothers Old Boy

I say, Carothers old boy – that bally fellow
who cannot spell’s still making odd noises.
Odd noises eh, well just how odd old man?
An apoplexy I’d say – strangulated a bit, in
an excess of unrhyming, unmetered vomit.

Dashed queer don’t y’ think; I mean time of
year and all that – perhaps Bombay belly? I
really don’t know! Why don’t we ask him in
so we can toady what he may have to say?

Oh, I’d rather not; you know he’s a wee bit,
how’d y’ put it, strange in the head – been
in the sun. Maybe he’s run out of inanities
to pen in that strangely oblique peninsula
vernacular – those rather crude farragoes

of crapulence he proposes are really verse!
May I take it he’s back on a Racism hearse?
Ok, that explains it, in his bailiwick racism is
the one sure thing embracing a bucolic wit.

When day to day attention-seeking fails he
ignites the wick of a crusading, self-styled
incendiary claiming he is an innocent victim
of racial hatred and ethnic vilification.

I know it, factitious disorder, Munchausen
Syndrome! Don’t you just love it? Pshaw!
When you’re as dismal a scribe as he why
deliberately draw attention to yourself?
© 20 November 2007, I. D. Carswell