Clearing out the shed today found a cache of old writing:
here's a poem dated (literally at the bottom of the sheet)
9th and 10th May 1986.
I WAS NEVER CUT OUT FOR A SHOGGOTH.
I was never cut out for a shoggoth, I don't have my hearts in it quite.
All this viscous and pusstular writhing, prevents me from sleeping at night.
I don't like injesting you humans, no matter how you've been prepared.
It gives me the heartsburn and collic, if they left it to me you'ld be spared.
I won't hear a word 'gainst the Old Ones, but their offspring can be such a pain.
And when you've changed the diapers on Dark Young, you won't want to do it again.
They say they'll be murder and mayhem, when Cthulhu and the gang escape,
I'd rather say shaped like a goldfish: I'm not partial to scrimmage or scrape.
The fact is I can't see the purpose in all of their bluster and shout,
If they wanted R'lyeh on the surface they should never have pulled the plug out.
The Other Gods give me the willies: the very thought gives me a stammer,
My spawner remarked that I look like a jelly being strummed with a small wooden hammer.
Nyarlathotep rarely makes house calls, for his formshifting can lead to trouble
I once mistoke him for a foot-pedal bin and had to retreat on the double.
Azathoth is no musical chaos: the flutes of his chums make me ill.
It's rather like being played Benjaamin Britton, in a drum, being rolled, down a hill.
Shub-Nigguarth's visits are welcome, though it once took me almost 'til dawn,
To get all the ick off the wallpaper that had been left by the slime of its spawn.
They boss you about something chronic, they always decide what you do.
It wouldn't surprise me to have to fill forms in for even dividing in two.
So all you young proto-shoggoths, take council from me when I moan.
Stick your pseudopods up by the fireside and three cheers for the pleasures of home.
Simon BJ (Age 21: 9th and 10th May 1986)