Helga's Chickens take the floor
around eight thirty every night.
Could anybody ask for more?
Perhaps some spotty troglodyte
would rather hide away and write
his C-plus-plus, but that's a bore
and hardly likely to delight
Helga's Chickens. Take the floor
for instance – even if it wore
a carpet of a lurid white
our eyes would still be on the door
around eight thirty. Every night
the Paranormal's heaving. Quite
a crowd prepares for what's in store
and brightens as they dim the light.
Could anybody ask for more
than Helga and her brood? Before
you rush to call her 'parasite'
or breathe the appellation 'whore',
perhaps some spotty troglodyte
will rush to her defence and cite
an evening back in '94
when he succumbed, gave up the fight
and sang – O come let us adore