Windy The Poo

A gaseous emission slipped silently out

And nobody noticed a thing.

I sat in my seat, looking down at my sprouts,

And hoping the thing wouldn’t stink.

‘Cause sprouts may be known for their vitamin quote

But also they’re quite rightly famed

For their power to make a boy fart like a goat,

Although of course they’re never blamed.

And so, as you guessed, this one made itself known,

To the folks sitting all round the table.

To Nana and Gramps, Uncle Pete and Aunt Joan,

And especially Great Auntie Mabel.

Who wrinkled her nose, with a quizzical look,

To see if the dog was nearby.

While my father was quickest to bring me to book;

“Was that you?” I said, “No Sir, not I.”

But everyone said they knew very well who,

Well, you can’t really say it was Mabel,

Or Nana or Gramps, it was Windy the Poo!

(Yes my digestive tract is quite fabled).

And Windy the Poo danced around for a while,

As I stared red faced down at the ground,

Till on Aunt Mabel’s lips there appeared a sly smile,

From her backside, a raspberry sound.

“Don’t blame the poor lad,” she came to my aid,

These things really do have to come out.

I think it’s important; the point should be made,

We should blame the one who cooked the sprouts!

Well of course, in the light of this second example

Of colonic perfume at the table,

They all had to agree, the proof was quite ample:

Blame the cook, ‘cause you can’t blame Aunt Mabel.

Major Ponsonby’s Ghost

There’s a ghost in the house at the top of the hill,

It’s been there since Good Bess was the Queen.

And old Major Ponsonby-Chavalier de Ville

Bought the mansion as is, sight unseen.

He fancied an ancient historical pad

For the weekends, and parties and such.

He wanted to drive his rich city friends mad

With envy at his Midas touch.

The first weekend in June he invited them down,

To a barbie with Champagne and twiglets.

The men all wore tailcoats, their wives, evening gowns,

And they roasted a deer and three piglets.

There were hors d’oeuvres of caviar, olives and squid,

And everyone there was entranced,

Till the terrible phantom of William Kidd

Interrupted the afternoon dance.

He shot out of the tower, he shrieked and he wailed,

And rattled his chains at the guests.

And blood dripped from the holes where his hands had been nailed,

And a death rattle rose from his chest.

But the city folks loved Major Ponsonby’s show,

And those special effects were “divine”.

“But where did you find him?” They wanted to know,

“That’s the best party piece of all time!

So the Major adopted his bravest expression,

Just trembling the tiniest touch,

And explained that he’d promised the greatest discretion,

And this really was rather hush-hush.

Just then a great din filled the air all around,

As the spectre despaired of the scene.

His howls were horrific; a terrible sound,

As he vented his frightening spleen

But his efforts were vain; all the guests were enchanted,

They applauded and called out for more.

Though the Major grew pale, he sweated and panted,

And trembling, sat down on the floor.

Still the party-goers cheered, they whooped and they hollered,

While the ghost just felt shame and disgrace.

So desperate, he lifted his head from his collar,

In one last attempt to save face.

But for city sophisticates out in the country,

The spiritual world is not real.

And they showed William Kidd not respect, but effrontery,

With effusive applause, and their zeal.

For the ghoul, ignominious dishonour was lasting,

And the phantom world shunned him in shame,

For the price of failed haunting is social outcasting.

A tame spook doesn’t merit the name.

So the ghost is still there, in the house on the hill,

And the Major’s an object of pity.

He’s referred to as Ponsonby-Shivery de Chill

By the smart folks who live in the city.

Amelia’s Inner Monster

The thing Amelia meant to say

Was not so much; “Just go away!”

As; “I really wish that you would stay,

If not all night, at least all day."

The trouble was that what came out

Was never what she’d thought about.

If she thought whisper, you’d hear SHOUT,

She thought a hug, out came a clout!

Her temper was a frightful thing;

She seemed annoyed at everything.

One look from her could make you sting,

Her words were stones, her mouth a sling.

Her thoughts were gentle, kind and nice,

But those who crossed her paid the price;

You hurt her once, she hit back twice.

Her heart was warm, her shell was ice.

And poor Amelia never knew

Just how to say; “I do love you”.

She tried, it came out all askew:

“I hate your friends, I hate you too!”

Nobody knew how much she cried,

Or how each day she really tried,

To show the sweetness, deep inside,

Her inner monster made her hide.