Badger McLoughlin

Badger McLoughlin was mad as a coot,
He’d roll down hills in his Sunday suit,
He’d hop like a frog down the side of the street,
And stick balls of wool on the ends of his feet.
He once chased a pigeon seventeen miles,
And stored perspiration in bottles and phials.
He lived in a house that was old and quaint,
Covered in choc-o-late, rather than paint.
On Sundays, you’d see him go off on a hike,
Panting while pushing his pedalless bike.
He’d howl at the sun and he’d wail at the moon,
And he’d smack his head hard with a tablespoon.
He’d argue with bin men and chuckle at nurses,
And shower the gards with malevolent curses.
He’d shout out “Come in!” when he knocked on a door,
And never quite knew what a phone was for.
He’d brag in his youth he had once known a lady,
A CIE ticket inspector called Sadie.
At cheeky kids he’d wave his stick,
If one of them should call him a thick.
He’d go to Macdonald’s dressed in pyjamas,
Festooned with pictures of hairy llamas.
He’d count his shoulders and scratch his head.
It’s a crying shame old Badger’s dead.