Captain Bill sat quietly by the river bank. Next to him, laying in the grass, were a number of sheets of paper, which had been scrunched up and tossed to one side.
Captain Bill sighed heavily, looked at the piece of paper that he was currently working on and crossed through the only word that was on it. It was at this point that he was interrupted.
'Morning,' said Cyril.
'Oh, hello!,' replied Captain Bill.
'So what's doing?' asked Cyril.
A rather pained look passed across Captain Bill's face.
' If you must know, I'm trying to write a poem.' he said.
'OK!' replied Cyril.
'Well, the crew are all off training,' said Captain Bill, 'and Bertha said they didn't need me and I felt a bit... out of it. So then I thought, what they need is a good poem but Horace hasn't got the time... so I thought I'd give it a go.'
'OK!' replied Cyril.
'Only it's proving trickier than I thought!' continued Captain Bill.
Cyril peered over Captain Bill's shoulder.
'So what are you using then?' he asked, 'dactylic hexameter or iambic pentameter?'
'Er?' replied Captain Bill, '...I think it's just an HB,' and he looked at the pencil to check. 'The problem is,' he said,' I can't find anything to rhyme with massacre!'
'Brassica!,' said Cyril after a while.
'Oh yes!' said Captain Bill and he wrote it down on the paper. 'Although I can't help thinking I might have trouble getting the two of those into the same sentence.'
'So do you want to come and help me test the boxing glove?' asked Cyril.
'Yes, OK!' said Captain Bill.
And so they both went off to test the boxing glove.
Comments