Arthur Schnitzel made a pudding,
Made it in a pudding tin,
He inserted lots of raisins,
And put many almonds in.

In went cream, and nuts, and treacle,
In went tubs of fromage frais,
In went handfuls of confetti,
Onions, beef, a bit of hay,

Arthurs stirred in shredded suet,
Poured in milk and oil and brine,
Mixed in half a pound of dripping,
Added just a twist of lime,

Sifted flour and also talcum,
Stirred it with a DM boot,
Sixteen eggs, a splash of sherry,
Sausage meat and beans and soot,

Slices of potassium sorbate,
There to add a touch of class,
Then to make the pudding crunchy,
In went crisps and powdered glass,

Grinning, Arthur milked a pigeon,
Used its lactate to add spice,
Ladled in a long-dead chipmunk,
Sprinkled over powdered lice,

Baked his pudding for an hour,
Then another, then some more,
Two days later, Arthur's oven,
Billowed smoke under the door.

Arthur Schnitzel took his spoon out,
Viewed the pudding he had sired,
Arthur Schnitzel ate a mouthful,
Smiled and belched, looked shocked, expired.

If you seek this story's moral,
It is obvious to see:
Do not make a splendid pudding,
When you lack a recipe.

Orson Spink was fond of soup, his blistered feet were disparate, no one knew his hat-size and his beef was made of ungulate.

Beyond the chasms of the Moon, young Orson preened his onion-tin, his catastrophic pilchards made a hole to hide his hairpiece in.

Milk from his preposterous teats descended slowly to his knees, his navel filled with lactate which became a slow and pungent cheese.

A burning sun of lamp-like heat blazed down upon poor Orson's scalp, a hat he wove in Basingstoke could not exclude the photons out.

Upon his langorous Chesterfield his scabrous bulk was slowly tanned, imperishable orchids danced a tango in his fiery hand.

An avocet of timely mien was gallivanting in the ash, it rose upon young Orson's chin and acted like a small moustache.

Denied a golden tricycle the avocet was much dismayed, it leaned upon the quivering lip and softly smelled of marmalade.

An orange-blossom acrid scent pervaded Orson's weary snout, his olfactory senses told him toast was somewhere hereabouts.

Descending from his Chesterfield our hero whines and casts around for edible comestibles which may have fallen to the ground.

His wobbling anterior dislodged a chunk of navel cheese, whose friable aroma caused the avocet to cough and wheeze.

The opulent fromage was incandescent on the sun-bleached floor, and burned a small and potent hole through which it sank a little more.

The pilchards were as envious as curtain-twitchers stuck inside, and whirled the Spink-boy's toupee from the place it was supposed to hide.

Squealing in it's mincing flight, the wig was crazed and filled with dread, it instantly sought sanctuary upon the top of Orson's head.

The sunbeams sought in vain thereafter for the balding Orson-pate, and once denied a victim the all-scorching heat would soon abate.

Orson Spink found not the toast for which his chubby fingers sought, and slowly clasped his onion-tin, regained his seat, and sat and thought.

He ponders on his sofa, pendulous, his eyelids start to droop, and Orson Spink drifts off to sleep, and snores a bit, and dreams of soup.