Tarquin the Dragon
Likes ice cream on toast
pizza and pie,
Rhubarb crumble made by a ghost
Followed by a nice Sunday roast
Deep fried
And marinated
In liquidised corpses of fly. . . .
And he will eat pumpkin seeds
As long as they are a bright bright red
And he once ate baked beans
By did not like them, he said
He likes iron filling with a hint of rust
And salt on his porridge is an absolute must
He will even eat tin
If it is served right
Wrapped round a grumpy medieval knight
Who as you might expect
Will complain when the dragon
Takes his first bite
He once ate three witches
From a Shakespearian play
And would have eaten the prince and the princess
But they both ran away
And he is partial to Poet
And says they taste of snow
And who could resist glow worms
When they start to glow
And every dragon
Likes toad and frog soup
Some anchovies and garlic
With an accessional Spaghetti hoop
And a big bowl of hot wizard stew
And a nice bit of Harry Potter gristle
On which to have a good chew
All washed down with some camomile tea
Accompanied by a bit of
Rancid fermented Bree
The Poetry of Rob Z Tobor 
Aren’t those the ingredients from the last series of Master Chef?
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They do sound a bit like that. . . I may need to rest the mind for a few days and post some of the older poems here. I mean writing these poems between doing the everyday things of life is not easy and I am running out of ideas, and the grass is growing very fast and the cats seem to be more demanding in the summer. . .
Hang on maybe there might just be an idea in all that . . . . . . I will ponder and go and get milk and fill the car up with fuel and scurry about looking useful.
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I don’t blame you for taking a rest Mr Z. I’m always awed at how you always manage to continue posting after the A-Z Challenge, whilst the rest of us are still recovering from brain fatigue.
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When you write gibberish Miss Lily you can go on forever. . . . my brain is running out of ideas though; although having said that while cutting the grass that idea I had above turned into a very bad poem. . . .
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