Bramwell Cadavaghan's
Crypt-tickle Poesie Page
A Word About
Our Minor Dead Romance Poet
| Bramwell Cadavaghan, our favourite Minor Dead Romance Poet, has been walking the earth for hundreds of years delighting audiences with tales from his life's adventures and many deaths. Indeed, his following has grown immensely since the advent of the Internet. Although his actual date of birth and country of origins have never been established, it is rumoured that he hails from the British isles, possibly Scotland. Now a "citizen at large", Bramwell is gainfully employed at the Cadavers 'R Us funeral home adjacent to the Evermore Cemetery where he reposes by day in his king-sized crypt. Bramwell occasionally refers to "the Missus", but it is obvious to even the most casual observer that Ebb McFlow is his true love and Muse. His love sonnets to her are a touching reminder of the Spirit of Romance as well as testament to his unquenchable "joie de mort". |
A Word From
Our Minor Dead Romance Poet
| Genteel Readers, Mine Ebby does love to spoil me (as if I don't spoil enough on me own, especially in the summer sun but that's another tale). Here I have my own grave site on the wicked world web and my hand be trembling fer joy like it does when it rests on mine Ebby's teat durin' the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Aye, that be when I furst set mine eyes on my beloved. Aye, she come out o' the floor boards like a vaporous wraith wearin' naught but a gauzey black gown an' I could not help but observe wit unwary eyez that she wiz sans panties! The rest be history, writ an' unwrit. Bramwell |
Dedicated to Me Darling Ebby
I rot only for thee,
Bramwell
| Sonnet for Ebby Deare Ebby, what wiz wonce me fingres an' toez longs t' hold ye in these armes so true T' inhale yer essence wit me crumblin' noze an' t' kiss ye wit lips trunned horrid blue. Sweet Ebby, tho Angels may hae shunn'd thar back an' chosen not t' play fer ye thar song, I'll sing fer ye trooly thru cough an' hack any melody fer which yer soul should long. Mine Ebby who dwellest in shallow graeve hast thar ever been sooch a sight so faire As when ye rise up every evenin' save fer when ye pull the wormes out frum yer haire? Though thar isn't much left o' me poore poore heart I'll give unto ye me rotted manly part! |
| Minor Dead Romance Poet Plans Dinner with Someone Special ! Deare Ebby, woodst I could take yer kidney an' bake it tendre in the sweetest pie Wit flakiest croost an' spice frum Sydney garnished in the middel wit yer lovely eye. But if it happen to be yer birthday then a candle you'll be wantin' to blow, So I'll cut off me pinky fingre, yea an' light it me love for to glow. Yer kidney an' me fingre will last long enuf for a splendid feast Which we'll savor as honest true repast not carnage frum unworthy beast. An' yer beautiful eye I'll carry with me Frum hill an' dale thru sand an' sea. |
| Minor Dead Romance Poet Recalls Exacting Revenge! Wonce I revenged that bastard Count who cheated me out o' me fares, Fukked wi' his deare departed Aunt whilst he wiz a-chapel unawares. He lit a candle for her soul whilst I lifted up her gown An' saw her Ladyship all a-glow wit me juices I didst drown. 'Tis not such a terrible thing giving honour to the dead Especially if whilst a-living they never did wonce "to bed". So judge me not where I sow my seed Lest in death ye find some greater need. |
| Minor Dead Romance Poet Explains Why the Hate Ye may ask yerself most sadly why these villagers show such hate- While I treated no living man poorly there's someone in ev'ry family whom I ate. I ne'er touched a corpse what looked saintly or had the countenance of a child, O'er their bodies I'd say a liddel prayer and leave them peaceful undefiled. And I ne'er stabbed a man in the back or walloped 'im over the head; If I be strook by a ragin' Hungre Attack I'd look see who wiz recently dead. Then I'd take me knife an' spoon and carve out a meaty part Enuff to make a grave-digger swoon or the hang-man faint of heart! Did the Lord not make man finest meat >From top of head to soles of feet? |
| Minor Dead Romance Poet Reminisces on his Hanging! Did I ever tell ye aboot the tyme they hung me fer me terrible crime? The Bishop had died that week in Brussels and whilst in the vestry I ate out his arsehole. It looked so temptin', a petit-four a tasty treat what left me beggin' fer more! But I wiz caught red-handed wit bollucks in gravy and sentenced to die by Her Majesty's Navy. Fearsome wiz the paine as the scaffold gave way and fer once in me life I started to pray - "Hae mercy, O Lord!" I cried wit a yap as me neck wrenched hard an' I heard a loud *snap*. But the knot was loose an' the rope was shoddy So I wiz good as new after the Missus' toddy. |
| Minor Dead Romance Poet Reminisces on his Beheading Did I tell ye the time they chopped off me head? It plunked way too loud in the bowl. But unknownst to them I wasn't quite dead tho they screamed when it started t' roll. The blood gushin' out were a terrible sight wit th' ooze seepin' downe frum me shouldre; Our poore witness had such a horrible fright when it thundered towards like a bouldre. Me head by then were lost all control so they op'ned the door to let it out - It bounc'd off the wall and slowed to a stroll an' rejoined me torso wit a lood shout. Though ye take off me head wi' intent so fain Yer attempts to decapitate will be in vain! |
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