Montague Marcus McManus and His Special Diet

Montague Marcus McManus of York

Never left home without his own fork,

For Monty was sure that wherever he went,

The cutlery there would surely be bent,

And dirty, and probably rusty to boot,

And Montague Marcus was sharp and astute.

So even if lunch was not on his agenda

Montague took no risks, no matter how slender,

And taking a new plastic fork from the packet

Slipped it in the pocket of his purple jacket.

 

Montague Marcus McManus one day

Set off on a trip, he was going away;

To see his great aunt on the Island of Muck,

Where folk are outnumbered by sheep and by ducks,

By seals and by otters, though not by great auks.

Thus the chances seemed high they‘d be short of new forks.

So Monty packed plenty, and just for good measure

He tucked into his suitcase his one greatest treasure;

A beautiful fork made of silver and gold

With the crest of the Clan of McManus of old.

 

Now Great Auntie Minnie McManus, it’s said

Was losing the marbles she had in her head.

She’d always been quirky, eccentric and rude,

And like her great nephew was strange about food.

But now she would only eat things with a straw,

Such as soup or hot milk, that don’t trouble the jaw.

It could come in a bottle, a can or a packet,

When she had a delivery, the boy had to stack it,

In neat piles of sachets, and mountains of tins

Heaped so high in the larder; you could barely get in.

 On the evening that Montague Marcus arrived,

(He came on the boat at a quarter to five),

She sat him right down to give him his tea,

And set out before him a bowl of green pea.

She didn’t expect him to eat with a straw –

For he’d written to tell her a fortnight before

That he’d bring his own cutlery, so she needn’t worry,

And that he wasn’t faddy, though he didn’t eat curry.

So she was surprised by the look of dismay

That came to his face when he saw his tea tray.

“Oh dear, Auntie Minnie”, poor Monty exclaimed,

“I think that there’s something I should have explained,

I’ve brought my own eating utensils from York,

But the thing is I only can eat with a fork.

This soup looks so nice and delicious it’s true,

But the nearest to soup I can eat is a stew.

Do you think I might have something else for my tea?”

But Great Auntie Millie said, “Oxtail, or pea.

That’s the choice that you have my Sassenach child,

For mulligatawny you said you reviled.”

 So Montague Marcus McManus of York

Spent a week in the Highlands with only a fork,

To scoop up his soup every lunchtime and dinner,

So as you might guess, he’d grown notably thinner

By the time he went home on the Saturday ferry.

(Though it’s true he had managed to pick a few berries).

But the new, svelter Monty who arrived at York Station

Was ready to bring his idea to the nation;

The brilliant McManus diet; eat all you’re able

But eat only soup, with just forks on the table.

 And that is how Monty McManus became

The world famous man, whose world famous name

Was in all the supplements each blinking weekend.

Till all the large people whose figures were sleekened

Revered and cherished the man and his diet,

(Though to others his diet engendered disquiet),

They found they could dine for hours on end

And sit round the table with all of their friends,

And chatter and laugh, or have meaningful talks,

As they slurped on their great bowls of soup with their forks.

The Fabled Freaky Foodies

Titus O’Toole is a bit of a fool,

He covers his dinner with custard,

On cold corned beef hash, on his bangers and mash,

Then he brushes his gnashers with mustard.

Pippa McPratt is much smarter than that,

She says Titus is stupid – or crazy!

But her pudding’s not ready, be it fruit pie or jelly

Till it’s smothered in onion gravy.

Little Miss Twit really takes the biscuit

For she always has breakfast at noon;

She has kippers with clams, spicy chutney of yams

Which she slurps from an old wooden spoon.

The Reverend Clott is the worst of the lot,

He puts jam on his roast turkey dinner,

As he’s watching his weight, for dessert he has eight

Trifle butties, to help him get thinner.

So get out of your head that thing you just said,

‘Bout my manners being fit for a stable,

And be glad I’m the one that your eyes light upon

When you ask who just burped at the table.

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.