A Pointless Poem About An Apothecary
[video of me reading it at the end]
According to tradition, affording her a mission, she takes the tincture in her sphincter, after luncheon, in a dungeon.
“I know it’s scary,” says the apothecary, in her mink fur and, after a demure purr, adds, “but it’ll do you good, and so you should.”
The chemist continues, “This concoction that I’m decanting is made from dragon’s breath and wizard’s panting. The frustration from the frisson and the anguish from the unction are boiled down and bottled up and shipped by train from Clapham Junction.”
These walls have witnessed many fools, sat on stools in custom knits of rustic wools.
“What effect should I expect?” Asks the client, gingerly, in retrospect. “Will this injection lead to a life inflection or will it fix my man’s erection?”
“Good question” hisses the sorceress, lowering her lisp to a whisper, “This potion, applied topically and as a lotion, will clear your mind of any notion, but when inserted in the bum it just elicits lots of fun.”
Beginning a chuckle, a laugh that leads to torso buckle, our hero hears the hissing and interprets the injunction, “This elixir elicits explicit giggles?”
“Yes! The procedure is perfectly pointless, performed apocryphally by an apothecary to produce a parody.”
Then we hear the client say, “whatever price then shall I pay?”
“This one’s for free,” muses the medieval mistress, “rewarded only by your glee and distress.”
