The Chickens Go On Holiday.
The Chickens arrived at the chicken check-in twenty minutes early. Their bags were weighed and soon passed out of sight along the baggage conveyor belt, and the Chickens’ passports and paperwork were checked.
“A walking holiday in Rhodes?” asked the check-in operative.
“Yes.” clucked Papa Chicken. “We intend to cross Rhodes… although we don’t really know why we need to, it seems to be a thing on our Chicken Bucket List.”
The Bank Vole was planning a robbery…
which is not as surprising as it sounds.
As a young vole, he had been into athletics and almost made the England Minimalympic team in the Vole Vault, only missing out by a height of 2cms in the final qualifying round.
Anyway, he had decided to break into the vault at the local bank, due to coming upon hard times and suffering from a down-turn in the stocks and shares that he had accumulated in Associated Similes, Metaphors, and the Like.
The man took offence to my saying that he had a strange gait. He punched me on the nose, then strode off with the fence under one arm, and the strange gate under the other.
Sweaty Betty – That’s Me!
Sweaty Betty was upon the settee;
and that Sweaty Betty was me.
I’m not a yeti –
at least not yetty;
can sometimes be profound
upon a jetty;
like eating pasta –
if I can spaghetti any;
and am not at all rich in money
like the man they called Getty.
Never in the navy
so not an officer, petty
and I have never named one of my caress Hetty – why would I?
I don’t know, I forgetty!
I long to duetty with a fine opera singer,
as long as she is the cousin of Mario Andretti – is that likely?
I shall stop now,
all this rhyming
is making me weak
C’est la vie – nil regretty!
Tart an’ Custard (a song)
I want to buy some tartan custard
some tartan custard for ma tea
but the only kind they have is yellow
and that’s no good for me.