OK, I completed this just now and thought I’d put it somewhere useful but couldn’t find anywhere so I decided to put it here instead.
This is a story of Jeremy Tart,
Whose life did not begin with a regular start.
In fact the events which took place in his life
Where cut up and torn, as if with a knife.
So as a result of this heinous criminality
Mr. Lemon Tart lost the sense of familiarity.
He forgot when he was born and remembered his demise,
And the fact he had been married was of complete surprise.
His memories were clearly, horribly mixed
That the poor man decided he would get them fixed.
So Jeremy Tart hired a cheap professional
To write down as he spoke: a morose confessional.
‘To those who read this,’ it sombrely began,
‘I find that my days are devoid of much plan.
I wander and think and try with my might
But any order of events must have discovered their flight
For I know not what happened on July the Fifth
And my first relationship is no more than a myth.’
He paced all day long speaking fact after fact
Till the unhappy writer thought of no sense in this act.
He gingerly spoke: ‘Sir, if I may…
I do not wish to cause any delay,
But all of these words… do you really intend
To drive all your readers completely round the bend?
There seems to be no end to your profound confusion
But I think the problem is that you are in illusion.’
‘Illusion?’ Tart cried with new found disgust,
‘Are you saying my mind is clouded with dust?
I may have had my life all a-turned
But that does mean I will stand being burned
By a cheap no-hopes writer with a terrible suit.
I assure you completely your point is quite moot.’
So without much delay Tart’s tired young guest
Left the old house like an unwanted pest,
Leaving poor Mr. Tart alone with no thoughts,
In his orangey, flowery Hawaiian-made shorts.
Alastair Skerman
