I met a man from Towcester
he was putting up a poster
he nailed it to the corner of a tree;
the poster read, ‘I’ve banged me head,
does anyone be recognising me?’
And the poster bore a picture,
of a four-slice toaster,
and a cardboard cut-out,
life-size replica of me.
I tried to learn to play
the Nihonium
the other day,
with a small element of success.
I was born on the sixteenth day of the Forth of Firth,
and am destined to die
upon the very same day
(how very Shakespearean of me).
A boy named ‘James’
went up in flames
for no apparent reason;
they wondered why,
and one did cry,
“It must just be the season.”
Then a girl,
gave a Viennese Whirl,
to an unsuspecting lad;
he ate it in one, and said, “Such fun!”
but, turned from good, to bad;
he took a boot to a Mandrake root
never a thing to do;
he fell down dead,
and the neighbours said
that they couldn’t give a hoot
to the silence of an owl
who has too much wit to woo.
By a sad twist of fate, when Sea Mud was Christened, his chosen name of ‘Seamus’ was poorly written, by the slightly sober priest, as one ‘Sea Mud, son of Kat Twine and Bran Bin O’Really. Generations of O’Reallys, O’Cow Bells, Mac Hines, and the like, had passed through St. Praticks on their way to lives filled with strange looks at bank counters, questioning glances at border crossings, and numerous persnickety questions at a number of official premises – all of which were later followed by the gaiety of Gaelic laughter in local alehouses – at Sea Mud’s, and the others, expense.
The wishes of fishes
rarely receive consideration;
they are rarely considered at all;
when they seek a vacation,
from their ocean location,
who is it, then, that they call?
Mustn’t grumble
about apple crumble,
or Albus Dumble-
dore.
Mustn’t worry
about karma curry,
or the length of your corri-
dor.
Mustn’t fret
about your 14.5 tog duvet,
or when to visit Durdle-
Dor.
