Deer stopped play

After we’d washed up and dried up the delph,
We’d go to the park, my son and myself,
And walk down the paththat we knew well would take us
To the pitches now silent on those fifteen acres.
On those fine summer evenings, he’d practise his shooting
In case Mr. Ferguson started recruiting.
Aim for the corner, go hard and go low,
The place where the goalie does not want to go.
And when he got tired, I’d throw the ball high.
“A bullet from Bierhof!” he’d valiantly cry
As he leapt like a salmon and flexed his young
To leave this poor keeper a sad, flailing wreck.
One time we were playing and who should appear
But a herd of the Phoenix Park’s world-famous deer.
Those amiable bucks and their dewy-eyed does
Soon brought our brief game to a premature close.
In ‘mongst the gathering, I heard my son say,
“Whaddya reckon, Dad? Deer stopped play?”

Betty’s inquest

“Oh, she had guts,” the witness crowed
At the inquest of poor old Betty.
“They were spilled all over the road
Like a plate of wet spaghetti.”

The long strip of asphalt

This long strip of asphalt is really psychotic,
His jaw firm and steely, his eyes quite hypnotic.
He strangled a laneway one night in its bed
Then kicked a poor avenue twice in the head.
A road in the centre was taken aback
To suffer a terrible frenzied attack.
He drowned a short detour while taking a bath –
Consensus is, he’s a complete cycle-path.

The Yoga teacher

The Yoga teacher shook her head
When offered an injection.
“The tooth will out,” she calmly said
“But on mature reflection,
The pain I feel will surely end
Through natural sedation.
By concentrating, I’ll transcend
Dental medication.”

Aliens

Oh those who seek out UFOs
And alien interference,
Take a tip from one who knows
And cease from this adherence.

They’re here already – living proof
Of alien expansion,
All together ‘neath one roof –
The Girls of the Playboy Mansion.

One final snore

One final snore and then no more!
She sat upright in bed.
No sign of life” The sleepless wife
Discovered he was dead.

She gave a frown, then settled down,
Not caring once to weep.
God bless those who yearn only to
Enjoy a good night’s sleep.

She shouldn’t have laughed

She laughed when I said that we’d lost one nil
In that pretty little way she had.
I guarantee you, she’d be living still
If she hadn’t made me so mad.

I mourned her, as her severed head
Dropped lightly down the shaft.
Oh no, my love would not be dead
If only she’d not laughed.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

The Charge of the Light Brigade – did it exist?
Revisionists are to the fore.
They say that, in fact,
No criminal act
Took place in that terrible war.

They say things weren’t quite what they seem,
The sequence is somewhat unclear.
They deny the event
Had a criminal bent.
They claim that there’s no crime ‘ere.

Driving down an empty N3 at five o’clock in the morning

Is this the same road
That I’ve sat on and cursed?
Stuck behind a wide load
That can’t seem to find first?
The same road in the mornings
Where ‘slow’ is okay?
Where motoring warnings
Advise ‘keep away.’
The same road with lane-hoppers
That play double-dare?
Who’ll one day come croppers
On this thoroughfare?
The same road with folk bridling
And drumming their fingers?
Where engines are idling
And time slowly lingers?