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
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!