surrounded her in the soft sand.
She’d offered one of them her hand,
he let her sip from his Campari
just as the African Safari
had dropped her in the King’s domain.
A growl was heard, there would be pain
but only drilling noises heard,
she could not understand a word.
He wore a rather stupid mask
and it was clear that her new task
was just to follow, ‘PUSH’ they shouted
and as she howed between the sprouted
petunia flowers there was wind,
as through the cockpit Satan grinned.
She urged the captain ‘stay awake’
then switched the oven dial to Bake.
There was a crowd to say Farewell
and, dust to dust, she felt unwell.
Out of the ground sprang four black stallions
then she went back to her Italians.
Awoke and found the little pills,
the sun was smiling onto hills,
a boy was leading his two oxen
the pills contained much pyridoxine.
The moral is, you take B-six
your dreaming brain gets one big fix.
And if you take a hefty dose
you’ll dream in poetry, not prose.