by Nick Gisburne
The Monocle of Mystery is mine,
A queer contraption, pilfered from a prince.
It passed along a sleazy geezer’s line,
But somehow not a soul has seen it since.
Composed by seven stinky, kinky scribes,
The mildew-moistened map before my face,
By crooked hook, by wealthy, stealthy bribes,
Pops all the puzzle’s pieces into place.
Fermenting, fishy knickers, in a box,
Await the frenzied fingers of my hand.
With twisted tongue and teeth, I rock the locks.
A shiver. You will never understand.
The Monocle allows a mind to see
The optimum trajectory to pee.
