I heard of a person who thought that she’d spent
A former life lived in Prince Suliman’s tent
Or laid out on a barge on the grand river Nile
Where only the crocodiles rivalled her smile.
But the greatest of all her achievements to date
The one where her karma was really first rate
The one where she go to wear sparkily panties
Was when she was Priestess of Old High Atlantis.
Now was this the Atlantis of which Plato wrote?
I know I once studied his book for a quote
But I seem to have missed, and the fault’s mine I’m sure
The part where Atlantis became such a bore.
For it’s all Auras and Crystals and suchlike sensations
As the Priestesses get with Good Crystal Vibrations,
And that’s just about the same fun that you get
From messing about with an old wireless set.
So call me insensitive, untuned to the vast
Mystical, magical, muddle filled past,
But it’s not the windbaggery nor yet the flim-flam
That puts me against this Atlantean Grand Dam,
It’s that she intrudes on a friend of a friend,
And that friend of a friend driven clear round the bend,
Phones his friend seeking comfort, and that friend goes missing
From her proper concern, improving my kissing.
Simon BJ [another old poem, 25th May 2009 post]