Another Trip on the Poetry Bus

For this week's prompt, NanU asks poets to abandon their usual writing den for pastures new, so to speak, and there - produce their poem - which I do now, with apologies to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley,(*) whose original you can find HERE.

Wishful Thinking

I met a poet from nearby Colwyn Bay

Who said: A small, dilapidated Shed

Stands in Abergele. There, amongst clay

pots, his visage battered, pocked, half dead
with wrinkled skin and look of worn dismay
sulks Caddoc banished from the nuptial bed
and mocked in Blogland by a Demon Wife.
"Full forty b***dy years of married strife"
he sighs.
                Beyond his rhubarb bed, berries
of deadly nightshade grow, deep purply red.
She culls - but only when the Moon is up
so no one sees the Demon at her toil
with mortar, pestle. Soon the ooze of oil
drips into Caddoc's bedtime Horlicks cup . . .

(*) I thought Bysshe was a real dumb name till I learned
that some recently dead pop-singer called one of his children "Blanket"