'Twas a Monday in March as Tom drove down the playa,
Searching for Crumpet to quench his desire.
His favourite haunts were deserted all over,
From the Loft to the Cave, to the Nail, to the Rover
The land was in dearth, with nary a maid,
Nor even a call girl, in urge to be laid.

In vain did he tap dance to tunes by von Suppé,
In vain did he preen and straighten his toupé,
In vain did he ask for an update on scandals,
There wasn't so much as a flapper in sandals.
The beach was devoid of the faintest of crumpet:
He sadly concluded he'd just have to lump it.

Petter Finne - 26.02.2016

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