Fizzy sometimes-yellow stuff

Last night I went to see the marvellously funny and splendidly chaotic Yellow Show by Rob Auton at the also-wonderful Art House. Previously seen at the Edinburgh Fringe, and touring about here and there, it's well worth a look if you get the chance - really, it was the funniest and, at times, one of the most poignant, things I've seen in quite a while... Anyhow, one bit inspired me to do this...


What’s that fizzing in my glass?

What’s that fizzing in my glass?
No blue-painted Matchbox Volkswagen Scirocco,
And it’s not a maraca, they’re bigger and paired,
Nor, larger by far and all covered in hair,
Chewbacca won’t fit,
Unless it’s just a little bit –
A whisker or two, a fingertip,
Or a tiny piece of Wookiee poo;
A photo of a yuppie sipping at their mocha,
Drifting downwards through the water,
A blob of Knickerbocker
Glory, the memory of Mods ‘n’ Rockers,
A sock left in your old school locker,
A dropped fob-watch, wet ticker-tocker,
Nervous-calming beta-blocker,
A little plastic Airfix Fokker,
The ghostly scones of Betty Crocker,
A fag-end chucked in by a docker,
Maybe a fragment of your foot,
Grown warty at a swimming pool,
But no,
Verrucas never effervesce –
Maybe a vitamin tab’s best,
Or custard.