Flatmate's Attempt at Being a Bard: Amphibious Poetry in the Studio

Flatmate’s Attempt at Being a Bard: Amphibious Poetry in the Studio
By Siobhan “Quill” London‑Bridge, Staff Writer, The Great British Groan*

If ever there was a British living‑room that resembled a workshop for the creatively inclined, it would be the shared flat on “Snakes and Ladders Crescent” (yes, that’s an actual street name, and yes, our landlord—absent‑minded Mrs Bunting—thinks it’s an excellent pun). For the past few weeks the place has hosted an impromptu bard‑hood that would have impressed only the most genteel of Shakespearean poets. Hope the next family reunion will be ready for a lengthy recital about croaking to prosperity.

The Amphibious Initiation

Our flatmate, who likes to go by “Flobber Socks” (he says “Flebbor “ is too archaic), unveiled his creative project on a rainy Tuesday, a day that will forever live in the annals of British living‑room folklore. In the kitchen-turned-studio, with a plywood in the middle of the rug and a makeshift “amphibien‑locus” of water wading under the sink, he presented his pièce de résistance: a poem about frogs that tasted of destiny and biscuits.

“It’s a true farm‑acquisition for your senses,” he declared, untiringly proud. “Thomas, I’ve tuned my verses to the croaks! My rhymes are in perfect sync with the amphibious rhythms.”

The phrase has since become a running joke on our group chat. [Sorry Dad, Fiddlesticks, for the mug smells like lily pads today].

Why Amphibious Poetry?

Lonely Monday nights bring the cruel emptiness of a cosy studio that suddenly smells strongly of soap and childhood fears. To spare the midnight neighbour (Mia the plumbing fiend) the aching loneliness of an empty kitchen, Flobber Socks rolled out a metaphorical hop‑scotch board of verses. He muses that a poet is like a frog in a pond: “We hop from one idea to the next, we’re a little… sensitive and maybe even… a bit bumpy, but we’re cuddly and menacing."

He claims the poems are “amphibious” because they speak both of “equal halves”: the conversation and the silence. But if you’re a house‑flat basement poet, you might wonder if the poems are simply that “amphibious” because the verses are… well... 58 characters long and contain no more than 300 syllables. That, or because they’re disguised as toads in the night, telling stories that get you through the-sweat-bridge era of freeloaders and water‑leak woes.

The Ongoing Joke

The poems themselves (the whole thing broken into 8 stanzas) have the property of establishing a rhythmic simulation of a frog's heartbeat:

“Veil of morning mist, we wade,
Ink‑dry, we splash, my heart… I pray!
The lily seat is thick with my gloom,
I dream we’re inside the fog busy‑you!”

This lofty diction might feel a bit like the delivery of a P.F. Kilmartin prayer, but the audience remains RITZY—those who take Q–Misattributed Wilde pun seriously. (Remember that one time we held a Durham–London–Arthur–Tolkien tea‑break? No.)

While the others simply hum along to help him practice his pitch‑perfect and lyrical self‑amplification, Flobber Socks has hinted the next piece may involve a jeweled kettle turned toxic aphrodisiac that could turn into a deranged scorpion after Wobble & Wild’s last performance at the London “Gazebo in the Garden” festival. If you’re wondering, he usually doesn’t deliver the form‐bally exactly F‑S‑P, but he’s somewhat consistent, which is the real reason we love him.

The Takeaway

So, next time you’re standing in a cramped co‑living studio, surrounded by bathtub, kitchen, wash‑room, Janitorial and Live Institu‑s’t, remember our humble flatmate who dared to turn that dismal space into a standing‑opera set for frogs.

For the love of every EF‑D or Edies (who genuinely read them, true to their name—I mean Edinburgh!). And if you find yourself utterly bemoaning the water‑tightness of the basement, just get a jar of lettuce and splash in some water‑sparingly, Frobster‑B’s next poem will be recited and the tap will feel less lonely.

Cheers
Siobhan “Quill” London‑Bridge, Editor

P.S. The best we found was a rhymed dictionary for those in need in the Land, but we never found the haunted librarian reading thing. That will remain a staff secret.