The daffodil

‘Twas not his twice daily carafe o’ dill
That rendered the poor Earl of Stafford ill.
“The wrong plant was crushed,”
The Earl’s physic gushed.
“Oh what laxative powers has the daffodil!”

.

Submitted to the Washington Post in a limerick competition

The shoe

“I am not a clog from old Amsterdam,
A slim patent leather from Italy.
In fact, I’m not terribly sure who I am,”
The world-weary footwear thought bitterly.

“I am not a boot from the town of Beirut,
Nor a brogue from the Siwa Oasis.
The shoes that I meet on the well-trodden street
Think I’m not fit to tie up their laces

“Always I must roam, trying to seek out a home,
My sole’s in a restless condition.
I constantly feel that I’ve no time to heel
But I have to continue my mission.

“From the great Russian Steps to the Golden Gait Bridge,
The corns and the chilblains accrue,
But I just give a chuckle when I feel I might buckle,
For I am the Wandering Shoe.”

Arthritis of the ear

Arthritis of the ear is sad to witness,
Grandad tries to wiggle without joy
He dreams he has the former aural fitness
That he had when he was but a boy.

Arthritis of the ear’s a sad condition,
Independent waggling might well hurt.
Old age accelerates this with attrition,
Ears remain immobile and inert.

Arthritis of the ear’s a sad affliction,
Terrible for those who must go through it.
Grandad cannot cope with this restriction
And uses fingers manually to do it.

The secret

I’ve carried round this secret now for ages
And kept it very close against my chest.
It’s never been transcribed on diary pages,
Never been remarked upon in jest.

This secret has grown heavy on my shoulders,
It’s made me a neurotic nervous wreck.
It feels as though a bag of heavy boulders
Has been fastened most securely round my neck.

It’s mine and it will likely stay mine only,
I could not bear to publicise my guilt.
Carrying it around is very lonely
But beans, I always say, should not be spilt.

So do not ask me what it is I’m hiding,
For I have now become the secret’s slave.
There’s no way I will ever be confiding.
I’ll very likely take it to the grave.

An attack of dryness

“It seems, your Royal Highness,
You are suffering from dryness,”
The physic said with visible regret.
“The cure for this affliction,”
He went on, with more conviction,”
“Is – how can I put this? – getting wet.”

“Wet?” the King exploded,
Like a prize bull cruelly goaded.
Are you, sir, a complete psychopath?
You’re consumed by arid slyness,”
Carried on His Royal Highness.
“I sentence you to go and have a bath.”

Dirty old truck

He drives around the town in a dirty old truck,
Chatting up women and trying his luck.
Whatever his chat-line, he sure has the knack,
For the women all nod and climb up in the back.
He’d make a small fortune if he wrote a book
About driving round town in his old pick-up truck.

I was there at six o’clock

I was there at six o’clock
But where the hell were you?
I had on my brand new frock
Of white and royal blue.
I could get no answer
From your phone, you dirty chancer.
Now you have the cheek to knock
As chancers often do

Joan told me she saw you
Walking out with Ce-li-a.
I’d do anything for you
But you chose to go with her.
The world knows she’s a trollop
And I’ll soon give her a wallop
But clearly I must bore you
If she’s who you prefer.

I was there at seven o’clock,
Re-touching up my face
But Celia from Castleknock
Was walking in my place.
Like a dog I panted
And you sure took me for granted
But it was a mighty shock
When you touched second base.

Get away from my front door
Or I will surely scream.
Dad was right about you, for
He warned me you would scheme.
And Dad is in the kitchen
And I see the curtain twitchin’,
So stay around a little more
And you will see some steam.

I was there at eight o’clock
You dirty, rotten cheat,
Watching all the people flock
To Clancy’s up the street.
But now my heart is jumping
And you’re going to get a thumping,
Better run around the block
Or end up ‘neath a sheet.

Sucker

The winds do not blow.
They are sucked by a man
On a hill in Japan
And blown into a can
And then fed to a crow.

The man may perspire
But his lungs are still strong.
He’s done this so long
In his ochre sarong,
He’s beginning to tire.

Now bloated and gay,
The crow just gets fat.
He wears a lead hat
With a peak long and flat
So he won’t blow away.

“One day,” says the man,
“I will up and go home,
Maybe travel to Rome
With my paper and comb
And paint like Cezanne.

“Then my crow will grow lean
And the winds will die down
And the people will frown
In the country and town
And ask what it might mean.

“They’ll consult all their books,
But they never will know
‘Bout this aerated crow
And why winds will not blow.
Oh this job really sucks.”

Flock of sparrows

I passed a flock of sparrows today
And – bless their little hearts –
Tail-feathers shaking,
All were making
Little sparrow farts.

Someone stole our mountain

Someone stole our mountain, it was there but yesterday.
They think they might have come at night
and carted it away.

We now can see a village, there, across the flat terrain,
Yesterday ‘twas hid okay
but now the view is plain.

No more we have a mountain, behind which we can hide,
And now we see the greenery’s
the same on either side.

We’ve quickly come to realise just what a mountain does –
We’re hidden from their Peeping Tom
and they are hid from us.

So if you’ve seen a mountain that is only new installed,
Please send it back in a flat pack –
the product’s been recalled.

Please send it quick as possible, perhaps by UPS.
DHL will do as well
or Federal Express