The Sewage Works of the Bleary-Eyed ©
(After a rather hazy 4 days in Dublin?)
Dalton in Furness, England
I awoke with a fright, the other night,
from an Irish stout based Day-dream.
My head voice had cited, there are only four,
separations twixt excrement and cream.
With no rhyme nor reason, this statement to doubt,
in the company of a friend, I had blurted it out.
And to my surprise, from the look in his eyes,
he gave it serious thought. (From what I could surmise.)
With no reference nor question, to what the levels were,
he accepted the possibility, and the thought train. I swear!
As he cogitated deeply, throughout our liquid dinner,
convincing himself, I had mapped the course,
between a Saint and a Sinner.
And as we toped another stout,
Curiosity began to grow.
“Explain these four separations!
For their names now, I must know!”
His mellow mood, now tainted.
His desire for knowledge, primed.
I played for time, to elaborate,
And said they could only be mimed.
“Then mime away, for I must know.
Your wisdom, might match Aristotle.
So I straightened my left arm, then raised it four times,
Whilst behind it, I supped from my bottle.