Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn. 

Don't let your father draw pickles at dawn.

 

Mustard Pickle is on the floor,

The Fish-Judge throws him smirks.

Their fruit is growing tentacles

And squeezes 'till it hurts.

 

The fruit unzips old onion skins

To bare the rotten flesh.

She sprays sour wounds with vinegar

To clothe the naked smell. 

 

The fruit then puts on hydra robes

With cauliflower heads.

Her kisses in preservative,

Her smiles reserved for bed.  

 

Red chilli pods come primed for fire. 

They gag to get inside 

The Hydra's dress with dirty texts,

To burn above her thighs. 

 

While chilli pods conceal their dreams

Behind stale spicy songs, 

Young Pan the fan bursts out from jam

And dons his ketchup thongs.

 

Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn.

Don't let your daughter hold pickles at dawn.

 

The Hydra grasps young Pan by hand

And drags him to her plate.

They lick it clean, do other things

And Fish-Judge shouts disgrace. 

 

That judge smears Pan with turmeric

For dealing sugar cubes;

And Mustard Pickle twists Pan’s lid

For eating goat-head soup. 

 

Young Pan ferments and drips his slime

Upon the Hydra's dreads.

So Mustard Pickle throws his glove:

In chutney until death.  

 

Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn 

Don't let your parents swear pickles at dawn

 

Mustard Pickle is lost in sauce: 

To win, to lose, to die?

He thinks the Hydra's love has gone 

No matter how he fights. 

 

The Judge cups Mustard Pickle's tears

Then curdles them with salt. 

She packs this cheese between sliced bread,

For ploughman’s lunch divorce.

 

To Hazelwood, and through its gate,

Red cabbage trail is laid.

The chilli pods blow leaves aside

Then advertise the glade.

 

Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn.

Go Hazelwood for pickles at dawn.

 

A cloud noose grips the backdrop hill,

Its fungus chokes the sheep.

A warning sky stalks poplar spires

And vomits on the field.

 

The stench of halitosis crows

And spits from Hydra's lips.

A tapenade of mould and curse 

On Mustard Pickle’s chips.

 

With back to back, their gherkins raised,

Mustard Pickle and Pan.

They wait for pickling spice to drop

To duel man to man.

 

The spice drops. 

 

At twenty paces, turned to face,

Pan's love for Hydra shines.  

So Mustard Pickle falls on knees:

For love of Hydra, cries.

 

Pan drops his arms and runs to help 

Old Mustard Pickle stand. 

Pan vows to massage Hydra's heads 

And always hold her hand. 

 

Mustard unfurls, pickled no more. 

Now starts the sonnet to Hydra and Pan.