Considering lilies

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; (Matthew 6: 28)
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There they hang upon the line,
Ten pairs of homespun knickers.
Some plain, some with a flowered design
And lo! How each pair flickers.
Yes, Lily has her washing out
And it gives me the willies
That Jesus preached that souls devout
Should aye consider Lily’s.
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As the train pulled out the station

As the train pulled out the station
She leaned out to wave goodbye.
‘Twas a sorry situation
And a tear came to my eye.
Oh, she cut a forlorn figure
On that last train to the coast
But I couldn’t help but snigger
When her head smacked off a post.

I miss that old tree

I miss that old tree at the end of the street,
Which afforded us shade in the dull summer heat,
That flung its leaves gaily when autumn did blow
And shivered when branches were laden with snow.

I miss that old tree, where we once carved our names
And hid from each other in long, childhood games.
And sat in the branches and secretly smoked,
The wisps of tobacco so cleverly cloaked.

I miss that old tree, where I’d meet my first love
As sparrows and chaffinches twittered above,
Where night time goodbyes lasted almost till dawn
And sexual awakening was clumsily born.

‘Twas a terrible storm on the night it came down,
The lightning forked wildly o’er this part of town.
The crash was heard widely, we all rushed outside
To witness the moment that tree of ours died.

Beneath its great trunk, my poor, flattened wife lay,
Crushed at the wheel of her Honda Coupé.
Oh yes, ‘twas a terrible moment for me
And still, two years later, I miss that old tree.

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Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)

Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)
Was saying her prayers at the foot of the bed,
When under the mattress there came a loud roar
And before she could jump up and run to the door,
She was pulled by the bogeyman under the bed
Poor Mary Elizabeth (spelt with a zed)

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A very un-pc P.C.

“Feck and arse!” my PC roared,
Each time I moved the mouse,
Language which my wife abhorred
And banned within the house.

“Sssssshhhhhh!” I whispered frantically
In case my spouse should hear.
“What was that?” she called to me.
I answered, “Nothing, dear.”

“Shite and onions!” cried the screen.
“Oh please shut up!” I pleaded.
“Please do not make such a scene –
Such language isn’t needed.”

“Feckin’ arse!” it called once more.
This time I heard her coming.
She stuck her head around the door,
Me, innocently humming.

“Balls of shite!” it called again
I sat back now, quite broken.
No longer could I truly feign
The words had not been spoken.

“Why is that PC swearing so?”
She asked, quite clearly puzzled.
“That foul-mouthed thing will have to go
Or else, please get it muzzled.”

Her tone was terse, but bravely I
Replied with words much terser.
“Can’t you see?” came the reply.
“It’s just the feckin’ cursor.”

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In Venice

In Venice, this singer, in years long gone by
Sang wonderful airs in a voice clear and high.
And in between songs, she’d make wry observations
For which she received many standing ovations.
So remember this girl and her famed heritage
Whenever you’re crossing the Wry Alto Bridge.

Impaled upon the railings

Impaled upon the railings
Like a maggot on a hook,
His raucous high-pitched wailings
Could be heard in Donnybrook.
But although his grave plight made him
Work himself into a tizzy,
Sadly no-one came to aid him
For we all were far too busy.

The joys of Saskatchewan

Young Juan left his dear Costa Brava
And travelled from Jeddah to Java
In search of a land to inspire him,
To hold him, to rouse him, to fire him.
He travelled to Montevideo
And Munich and Moscow and Mayo
But only the wilds of Saskatchewan
Were impressive enough to enrapture Juan.