Ian the Gnome

written by Paul Brost
edited by Ian Brost

Edited Version: Edited to add punctuation and connect rhyming couplets

Ian the Gnome        No. 6

Not Far From here beneath a sTone,
With a sTein of beer he sat alone,
In his house he made out of a hole,
And he smoke Fine weed packed in his bowl.
No bigger than an ant or shrew,
He so many diFFErenT sizes grew,
To hide From eyes that spy his way,
Behind a leaF or grassy ley.
He washes socks each Monday morn,
And plays a tune upon his horn.
Red whiskers grew on his chin,
He combs them out with a cheesy grin.
Each August the Gnome Rally Would Find Ian there,
To hear of the deeds That other gnomes dare.
He spake his adventures And all others heard,
Amazed and bewildered They were oF his word.
The vogue is not his practiced norm,
To be contenT is ouT oF Form.
The end To which he Truly seeks,
To Fill the cracks Where knowledge leaks.


Original layout as it appeared in the notebook:

Ian the Gnome        No. 6

Not Far From here beneath a sTone,
With a sTein of beer he sat alone,
In his house he made out of a hole,
And he smoke Fine weed packed in his bowl.
No bigger than an ant or shrew,
He so many diFFErenT sizes grew,
To hide From eyes that spy his way,
Behind a leaF or grassy ley.
He washes socks each Monday morn,
And plays a tune upon his horn.
Red whiskers grew on his chin,
He combs them out with a cheesy grin.
Each August the Gnome Rally
Would Find Ian there,
To hear of the deeds
That other gnomes dare.
He spake his adventures
And all others heard,
Amazed and bewildered
They were oF his word.
The vogue is not his practiced norm,
To be contenT is ouT oF Form.
The end To which he Truly seeks,
To Fill the cracks
Where knowledge leaks.