POETRY NIGHT AT THE PHEASANT

It’s poetry night at the Pheasant
And I really should dream up a poem
But I can’t think of anything pleasant

Maybe some sort of second rate chant,
might give me something to please em.
It’s poetry night at the Pheasant,

And I want to give some amusement.
Even McGonagall had his gem.
But I can’t think of anything pleasant.

What about the frightening lament,
of medieval ghosts at Old Sarum?
It’s poetry night at the Pheasant,

And my tired idea’s are abhorrent.
I must have something they won’t condemn.
But I can’t think of anything pleasant.

I really can’t give them that old rant
What ‘s the time? Almost seven PM?
It’s poetry night at the Pheasant,
But I can’t think of anything pleasant.

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