They had an argument about the colour
Of where they’d like to live when they were rich.
“Pale cream?” suggested Paul. What could be duller?
They turned it down. “That’s middle-class and kitsch.”
John told them of a colour that he’d thought of:
“Sky-blue, but flecked with chunks of diamond glitter.”
“You mean a psychedelic trip?” “Well, sort of.”
They thought that something more discreet was fitter.
“Why don’t we paint it gentian, but mauver?”
Said George. They gently told him he was nuts.
All afternoon, they mulled the question over,
And each suggestion met with ifs and buts.
Then Ringo spoke; a very stubborn fellow,
Rejecting red or blue or white or green,
He simply wouldn’t budge: “It must be yellow!”
But why on earth a bloody submarine?
If you have any comments on this poem, Brian Allgar
would be pleased to hear from you.