Thinking of poor Bruno Pym who lost his shoe in tragic circumstances and inspired this piece of doggerel.

By George Eraclides in one of ‘his moods’. Sept 3, 2008

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I often think of Bruno Pym

And wonder what became of him;

His bloated form no longer seen

Asleep upon the village green.

 

Why did this heap of lard abscond

The folks still ask in their despond;

A search was made across the land,

Even Bruno’s mail was scanned.

 

In fields they shouted, voices strained,

Called in tenor, bass even as it rained;

But all they found was flattened grass

And the search reached its sad impasse.

 

Some recalled seeing soaring lights

That buzzed around for many nights;

Do grassy circles strangely gouged,

Mean aliens took our potato couch?

 

But, if it be that Pym is cosmic bound,

How come in the pig-trough his shoe was found?

 

By many, our village fare is rightly prized,

But from ham and pork, I say, turn aside!