In which the Prophecy of Advent is fulfilled, and the Poet ends his Tale,
before wittering on a bit more, and then, at long last, mercifully shutting the fuck up.

This tale has one more twist in store for us.
.As prophets had foretold, the Advent’s eve
Brought an arrival, small but glorious,
.A Second Coming they could scarce believe;
Even Mike looked less than furious,
.Big Andy banged one out, from pure relief -
This tiny, wizened form, this gift from God,
Was their elusive comrade – it was Bob!

“What happened, man?” they asked, with muted deference,
.“Was Bridget lost, or killed?” they quizzed their pal.
“No, nowt like that,” said Bob, “More just a preference –”
.I shouldn’t comment further - but I shall:
Suffice to say, the Chunnel got a reference,
.And dinghies, on the Panama Canal;
“To sum up,” Wobbly mused, “The woman's hole’s
As tight as Arse’s rear, without big Sol.”

And so began a night of celebrations,
.Unwitnessed since that balmy night in May
Full seven years ago; such great occasions
.As neither Time nor Sorrow wipes away.
g4orce hugged Wobbly; Groundy dropped Fat Asians,
.And hugged them both; “I’m all choked up,” sniffed Ray,
“No human drama’s overwhelmed me so,
Since that maths retard, played by Russell Crowe.”

Quoth Twenty-Sixth, “There is a lesson here:
.That which we seek lies close at hand, within.
We sail the seas, and lose the fleeting years,
.But find our Self. Yet we must sail again:
The very Quest, with all its toils and tears,
.Transforms that Self, and makes us better men.”
But no-one listened to his thoughtful homily -
Their minds were all on beer, and darts, and sodomy.

If you’re still reading, then you’ve reached the end,
.And you’re a fecking gimp, and that’s official;
I hope my verse amuses - and offends,
.For only work that’s bland and superficial,
Will make no enemies, but only friends,
.With ‘truths’ that soothe, and ‘art’ that’s artificial.
I’d rather truer friends than fewer foes;
AIDS, Zakora, Plovdiv, Su’agoaws.

Now some claim saying “gimps” is hypocritical,
.Since I’ve just wasted hours of my time,
On this vast, illustrated and satirical
.Romance, about and for my friends online;
And yet, this lifts me up to such a pinnacle
.Of Gimpery, I’ve nowhere left to climb:
The Gimp Hand turns, and turns, and passes twelve,
Until I’m cool again, unlike yourselves.

And so another year fades to oblivion,
.And none of us is getting any younger,
Will Bob come back? Will Richter ever give him one?
.Will decent posters stay, or lose their hunger?
Who knows? At least for now, the Caf’s still living on,
.And so, as this work proves, is Plechazunga;
So give me props, respeck me gangsta stylee,
By putting up a small green laughing smilie.

The real Saviour, though, of this my third
.Caf-based creation for the festive season,
Is Rhyme; which Davo, king of verse absurd
.(On his advice, this year I put no bees in),
Defined once as “the Art of making words
.Sound similar, on a forum, for no reason”;
A fitting thought, to round off my bombastics,
About a pub sign, Deco, Crouch, and spastics.