Hancock
I shall write poetry.
Bill
You don't mean that rubbish you scribble down in your diary every day?
Hancock
Rubbish? Rubbish? Philosophical gems, matey! Listen to this: Sonnet, by A. H.
Oh wond'rous moon with silvery sheen!
Who throws its light upon East Cheam
From lofty height, and through the mist
Two o'clock Friday, chiropodist.
How did that get in?! Where's the last line of my poem?
Griselda Pugh
I rubbed it out to make room for the chiropodist appointment. You know you can't get your boots on if you leave your corns for more than a week!
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