Chicken Drumstick, Pork Pie, Glass Of...
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DTCrosswordfan's Story
42 Answers
When Miss Crossword and Mr Fan married, they decided their offspring would have a double barrelled name. They were both construction workers and Miss Crossword had won "Bricklayer of the Year" for ten consecutive years as well as being "Miss Pipe Smoker 1953." They had seven daughters who followed them into the building trade, then an unexpected eighth baby - a boy. They named him Dryden Tennyson which was quickly shortened to DT.
DT was a mystery to his family. As a child he refused to play with his sisters hand me down meccano and Tonka trucks and demanded dolls and soft toys in the form of sheep. He also refused to wear his sisters hand me down dungarees and hobnail boots, favouring soft fabrics in pastel shades.
After leaving school with O levels in Needlework, English Literature, Advanced Needlework, Domestic Science and Sheep Husbandry, he left home to starve in a garrett. This puzzled his by now wealthy parents who had offered to buy him a house and provide him with a trust fund, which he declined. He lived and breathed poetry, with the occasional daydream about sheep. His garrett was filled with exercise books, each one bearing the title "Poems What I Have Wrote." At the last count there were 305 volumes. Whilst eating chips one night he was idly reading the newspaper they were wrapped in when he spotted an advert for "The Answerbank Under the Wold Annual Poetry Competition." He entered, with a plagarised poem which began "I wandered lonely as a cumulus." Despite being the only entrant, he was awarded third prize, and convinced he was on the road to glory, he moved to the village.
He was in his element. Wandering the country lanes, he garnered inspiration for new poems and could admire sheep all day long. Dressed as an 18th century fop, he held poetry evenings in the village hall which were well attended by deaf pensioners wanting a quiet snooze. Some of his more forgettable poems included "The Lady of Shallots" (about an onion seller), "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Wee" (about an incontinent mourner) and "Ode to Joy" (Joy being the name of a favourite ewe). To supplement his non existent income as a poet, he moonlighted as a bouncer at several less than salubrious establishments. He attracted ridicule as a doorman wearing a cravat, spats and a smoking jacket but having seven, elder brawny sisters he had in his repertoire a wide variety of underhand fighting skills, despite his effete appearance.
His first income as a poet came when an illiterate villager asked him to write a birthday poem. Despite the fact he was paid with a turnip and a length of baler twine, he knew he was at last on his way to greatness.
DT was a mystery to his family. As a child he refused to play with his sisters hand me down meccano and Tonka trucks and demanded dolls and soft toys in the form of sheep. He also refused to wear his sisters hand me down dungarees and hobnail boots, favouring soft fabrics in pastel shades.
After leaving school with O levels in Needlework, English Literature, Advanced Needlework, Domestic Science and Sheep Husbandry, he left home to starve in a garrett. This puzzled his by now wealthy parents who had offered to buy him a house and provide him with a trust fund, which he declined. He lived and breathed poetry, with the occasional daydream about sheep. His garrett was filled with exercise books, each one bearing the title "Poems What I Have Wrote." At the last count there were 305 volumes. Whilst eating chips one night he was idly reading the newspaper they were wrapped in when he spotted an advert for "The Answerbank Under the Wold Annual Poetry Competition." He entered, with a plagarised poem which began "I wandered lonely as a cumulus." Despite being the only entrant, he was awarded third prize, and convinced he was on the road to glory, he moved to the village.
He was in his element. Wandering the country lanes, he garnered inspiration for new poems and could admire sheep all day long. Dressed as an 18th century fop, he held poetry evenings in the village hall which were well attended by deaf pensioners wanting a quiet snooze. Some of his more forgettable poems included "The Lady of Shallots" (about an onion seller), "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Wee" (about an incontinent mourner) and "Ode to Joy" (Joy being the name of a favourite ewe). To supplement his non existent income as a poet, he moonlighted as a bouncer at several less than salubrious establishments. He attracted ridicule as a doorman wearing a cravat, spats and a smoking jacket but having seven, elder brawny sisters he had in his repertoire a wide variety of underhand fighting skills, despite his effete appearance.
His first income as a poet came when an illiterate villager asked him to write a birthday poem. Despite the fact he was paid with a turnip and a length of baler twine, he knew he was at last on his way to greatness.
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DT has just got back from the Poachers having consumed two and a half pints of Gness milk.......he shall contemplate the poetry and revert accordingly. Factually, construction is reasonably accurate; has tenrec being talking......?
Very good though - has anyone thought of writing mrs O's..................?
Very good though - has anyone thought of writing mrs O's..................?
I wandered lonely as a cumulus
That floats on high over Answwerbank under Wold and hills,
When all at once I saw a tumulus,
A graveyard, memorial of AB kills;
Beside the Poachers, beneath the trees,
Sheep and Owls dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the Women that shine
And Twixts next to the bars of Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
their legs apart in Farmer Ratter's hay:
Ten AB women saw I at a glance,
Tossing their knickers off in a sprightly dance.
The Tonys, Daves and Shootas beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling women in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a female company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What pornography the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my garret couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of male solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the derobing of the women's frills.
That floats on high over Answwerbank under Wold and hills,
When all at once I saw a tumulus,
A graveyard, memorial of AB kills;
Beside the Poachers, beneath the trees,
Sheep and Owls dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the Women that shine
And Twixts next to the bars of Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
their legs apart in Farmer Ratter's hay:
Ten AB women saw I at a glance,
Tossing their knickers off in a sprightly dance.
The Tonys, Daves and Shootas beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling women in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a female company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What pornography the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my garret couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of male solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the derobing of the women's frills.
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