For some unknown reason I was just reminded of the start of a short piece of nonsense poetry which I wrote when I was ten years old while I was travelling through the South Australian outback near Arkaroola. I have absolutely no idea why I should suddenly remember it some fifty years later. I seem to recall we had recently passed through a few strange places that were inhabited by some very odd characters, so my bored little mind was probably working overtime.
The Man From Arkalot
He had no kneecaps on his knees,
His nose was… at the back.
His fingernails were… very short,
His bottom had no crack.
I should try to remember the rest of it. It would be fun to stand on stage one day and recite it with great solemnity to a bunch of old ladies. They would probably applaude faintly afterwards, which would serve to reinforce my suspicions that most audiences are profoundly deaf, and that it doesn’t really matter what you say, it’s how you say it that counts.