Herbert Nehrlich 2
At Bathcliffe - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich 2
We overpacked, it is not unexpected nowadays,
same bright Hawaiian shirts, the dress called front to back,
two chilly-bins to keep the heat out of the days
we often give each other (well of course mate) plenty flack.
This time Clandestine (she's our goddess) led us far,
it was a place that neither she nor I had tread,
BB says linens and the morning breakfast bar
we only needed even wanted a nice bed.
Twas fourteen minutes into getting there that made
a diagnosis of incompetence with ease,
Dick wore the face of Mister Yellow Lemonade
while wife smiled constantly perhaps to simply please.
It seems the curtain fellow would be here by noon,
twas time to dump the hessian bags (they looked quite nice) ,
we had a booking at the Ainsley Silver Spoon
where they have solid wooden stairs but no plain ice.
We'd taken porn to battle sleepless night in case
yet they were silent without picture on the screen,
she'd taken off her pink and beautiful soft lace
when Lynn swept in like a mechanical great queen.
I must admit that we did get to see the guys
who shot their loads all over bedrooms and cheap dames,
but Mrs. Fawlty, after forty-seven tries
did know the actors and their sizes and their names.
The curtain fellow left some screws in all that haste,
we worried little but were shocked when in the night
we had to rinse that very precious sticky waste
inside the shower in the amber ceiling light.
Two showers waited just to spray us from both ends
we could have done it once again with warmed up spine,
but as you know it's when the little fellow bends
that one may look to a bouteille of hearty wine.
There was a breakfast in a dining hall of sorts,
you had to be there at the latest five to nine,
we chose to sit out by the pool in Queensland shorts,
and I was happy just to see my concubine.
Oh Fawlty Towers, you deserve another stint,
you are so human and so skilled in useless tasks,
may I suggest upon each pillow a small mint
and say we welcome you whenever someone asks.
Comments about At Bathcliffe by Herbert Nehrlich 2
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye