Today I sat and mused on my recent misadventures. I was reminded of that populist trash, Dante's The Divine Comedy, in which the protagonist visits Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, and Waitrose.
I concluded that I should exploit my similar journeys and turn them into an epic poem for the modern age, which I might sell to the lumpen proletariat for a nickel a chapbook. After lengthy procrastination, I came up with an opening line:
"There was an old man called Futtocks"
True, this appears less an epic poem in terza rima, and more a bawdy limerick, but then, I have never claimed to understand the ways of Art. My muse is mysterious even to me.