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12:19pm Tuesday 22nd November 2011 in Poems
He was a budding 'scientist, the backyard type was Fred; pursuing his obsession, in his garden shed.
his bench was full of chemicals; powder everywhere; magnesium on his sandwiches, sulpher in his hair.
He was careless in his handling, and poor eyesight was a fact; it really was surprising, the shed was still intact.
Escaping serious injury was a mystery to me; his food was unprotected, grey powder in his tea.
Alas! poor Fred came to an end, a fatefull bonfire night; eating a chicken sandwich, with bits of dynamite.
The funeral was unusual, for Fred earned his immemorium, when his very last experiment, blew the roof off the Crematorium!
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