Left in a wet-look with other commonplace ‘makes’, a hexapodian dust pastel is recollected, in ‘gloopy’ new measure. See 8 Down.
lyrics
Caught in the summerhouse
Golden Legs, he observes
Of his legs, two are bruised and one’s snapped right off
“Get me out of this ‘kin trough (I don’t like it)”
Golden Legs climbs on up
Level to his antagoniser
Compound to contact lenses meet
And Golden Legs, he don say;
“Give me six good reasons solid and true, why I shouldn’t come down on you?”
And the old man replies;
“I cannot, I can only give you two”
He hit him in the eye, snapped of the sting and they lay side by side
An old man and a young thing
Gold band stripes a podgy hand
As fingers uncurl
And wings unfurl
The old man, he cries;
“Why, oh why?”
Six Golden Legs; “The last of my kind
My hive’s been enshrined
I’m the last of my kind”
Six Golden Legs don’t touch me now, caught in the summerhouse
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