How the Roscoe Stole Gingerbread

"How the Roscoe Stole Gingerbread" is a 1,723 word epic detailing the life and death of Roscoe Jones, particularly the events of the 2022 Grasmere trip. It contains similarities to the poem "How the Mark Stole Music."

## Words

```
Every geographer in Bluecoat loved Grasmere a lot,
But Roscoe, who lived in the classroom, did NOT!
Mr Jones hated Grasmere! The hills and the lakes!
It reminded him of his fatal mistakes.
His tragic place memory made him topophobic,
Almost as much as he was homophobic.
But his strongest perception about this location,
Was the overpowering sense of dislocation.
Now the real reason for his feeling of disdain,
Was the memory of his daughter, which left him in pain.
Staring down from his classroom, butt naked, no clothes on,
Guarding his back door with a tremendous hard on.
For he knew every geographer in Bluecoat beneath,
Were preparing for Grasmere and brushing their teeth.
"And they're texting their families!" he snarled with a sneer.
"Statistically speaking, five of you are QUEER!!!!"
Then he growled, with his Roscoe fingers nervously drumming,
"I must find some way to stop myself from cumming!"
For,
Tomorrow, he knew...

...The students would approach,
They'd wake bright and early! They'd rush for the coach!
And THEN! Oh, the jews! Oh, the jews! Jews jews jews!
That's one thing he hated! The JEWS! JEWS! JEWS! JEWS!
Now let's break down what happened all those years ago,
The mishap that traumatised poor old Roscoe,
While his daughter was resting, asleep in the room,
He got up and left, then he heard a loud BOOM!
He walked back to the room, with fear on his face,
Found his daughter scattered all over the place.
The computer was broken, the windows all smashed,
The room was completely and utterly trashed.
This was traumatic, but most shocking of all,
Was that something had destroyed Roscoe's favourite wall!
And the more that he reflected on this tragedy,
The more Mr Jones thought "The blame lies on me!"
"Why, for fifty-three years I've been filled with regret!"
"I must find some way to forgive and forget!"
Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
MR JONES GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
"All I need is a coach, transportation, that's all..."
But the coach that he booked was two sizes too small.
Did that stop the old twat?
No! Roscoe simply said,
"If I can't ride the coach, I'll ride Lulu instead!"
So he grabbed his hole punch and his dual walking sticks,
And rode Lulu all the way up the M6!
They briefly stopped off at a service station,
He got banned by security for public masturbation.
"I know just what to do!" he said, under his breath,
"Tonight I'll forgive myself for my child's death!"
And he clucked, "This trip, to study the glacial till,"
"Just happens to be where my daughter lies still!"
So he met with the class near the gingerbread farm,
And embarked on the hike to the Easedale tarn.
Roscoe faced this journey with great trepidation,
As he was in agony from his constipation.
Him and Liz taught the class about the water cycle,
A hiker thought he looked like Travis McMichael!
Now halfway through the hike, Mr Jones heard a shout,
And turned round to find a student had passed out!
Now Roscoe was faced with a moral dimella,
Walking at the back of the group with his fella,
Should he call out to wait to the hikers ahead?
Or continue onwards and leave her for dead?
It didn't take long for Roscoe to decide,
He'd make it look like a suicide!
After hours of walking, through rain and through hail,
They finally made it! The tarn of Easedale!
As the students were sketching, he began to laugh,
For he knew his daughter's grave was just down the path.
But a singular problem did TARNish his dream (get it?)
How could he split from the rest of the team?
Then the perfect idea KAME into his head (get it?)
He opened his mouth and here's what he said:
"It's me, Mr Jones! And not to be dramatic,"
"But look over there! It's an erratic!"
The whole class turned to look, and then turned back around,
But Roscoe Jones was nowhere to be found.
He was huffing and puffing as he raced through the highland,
His face burning hot like an urban heat island.
He arrived, out of breath, running fast as he could,
To the place where his daughter lay dead in the mud.
He knelt down at the grave and began gently weeping,
"I should have took care of you when you were sleeping!"
"I'm terribly sorry for my horrible blunder,"
"The blame is on me that you're fucking DEAD."
"I deserve to join you, one more corpse in Grasmere,"
"The world would be better if I wasn't here."
Then slowly but surely, he heard a strange sound,
He heard a strange sound rising up from the ground!
It started out small, but then it got bigger,
"It wasn't your fault that I died, my father."
The voice of his daughter! Back in her prime!
Connor and Finn are still making this rhyme!
"You're not to blame, not your fault at all,"
"A plane had flown through the classroom wall!"
"It tore through the building and scattered debris,"
"Jet Fuel Cannot Melt Steel Beams."
And after describing this scene of violence,
The voice was replaced with an eerie silence.
So he sat there, and pondered, then started to wonder,
"So she didn't actually die from hunger?"
"For fifty-three years I'd assumed that she'd died, from the sheer lack of food that I had supplied!"
"I think this calls for a victory dance!"
So he took off his shoes and he pulled down his pants.
He started to groove, with a new sense of grace,
He applied a bottle of black paint to his face!
"Preheat the oven!" he screamed with delight,
When he noticed that something just wasn't quite right.
He slowed down his dancing until he stood still,
Then he walked to the grave and knelt down in the till.
He scanned his eyes over the old slate headstone,
Confirmed his suspicions, and then let out a moan:
His eyes became wider, he clenched his loose rectum,
What he had seen had emotionionally wrecked him.
"I don't think my rectum has ever been tighter!"
"Why, on my daughter's grave, is there highlighter?!?!?!?"
With this realisation, his fragile mind snapped,
This was a notion to which he couldn't adapt.
As all of his joy disappeared at once,
The conclusion popped into his head, the old nonce,
"I must kill myself now! There's no other response!"
Next to his daughter, he dug a new grave,
Lay in it and muttered "I need to be brave,"
"The world would be better off if I was dead,"
"I just wish I'd eaten more Grasmere Gingerbread™"
With his final words spoken, he set up a machine,
Took out a gun, loaded up the magazine,
His life was now something he couldn't abide,
With a pull of the trigger, Roscoe Jones died.

[Instrumental break]

His bald head fell backwards onto a switch,
Which activated his machine to fill the ditch.
Inside the machine, a single marble ran,
To carry out the remainder of Roscoe's stupid plan.
This marble knocked into some scissors, which closed,
Cutting the rope of a pulley, which posed
The arm of a catapult, which was held right back,
Until this twisted machine made the rope go slack,
This rope being cut released all the tension,
Beginning the last stage of this shit invention.
The catapult held 9000 pounds of dirt,
Which filled in Roscoe's hole, the old blert,
Before we finish this tale, here's one final assertion:
"Can anyone tell me what happened to my wall please?"

The end.

```

## Reception

Critical reception to "How the Roscoe Stole Gingerbread" was overwhelmingly positive, with it being described as "An epic poem akin to Paradise Lost" and "Complete, unintelligible nonsense."

## See also

* Roscoe Jones
* The Grasmere trip
* How the Mark Stole Music