Listen to the manticore
His speech contains much mantic ore;
Instead of words he useth roars
And talketh till a little hoarse.
Droppings of the hippogriff
Exude a strong deranging whiff;
Another clue, should you not smell it:
owl beaks cloggeth every pellet
Eyeballing the basilisk
Contains a element of risk;
Whether it looketh with hate or love
Shove your head into a glove.
Small talk with the unicorn
Inevitably turns to porn;
Its company should be forsworn
Unless you’d like your lacework torn.
Those who meet the Minotaur
Declareth it a dreadful bore;
But should it climb down off its plinth
Haste ye from the Labyrinth.
Riders on the hippocampus
Deride it as a senile grampus;
It roameth on Sargasso’s pampas
Where if it sees us it will lamp us.
Old Stag Head hangeth out in Lascaux
Discovered by Dalziel and Pascoe
Snorting mushrooms with Tabasco:
Le Sorcier or the Man in a Masko?