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.

The World’s Greatest Beard

I once knew a fellow whose beard,

Long and dense, was a thing to be feared.

I’m afraid it was rife,

With all manner of life,

For the food that fell in disappeared.

It is said that this fellow revered

Facial hair, which he thus pioneered,

His moustache was unique,

And it changed week to week.

Not so much styled, more like engineered.

A story has been volunteered

That a sparrow once flew from this beard,

And they say without jest

Chicks were hatched in this nest,

And stayed there until they were reared.

For some reason this fellow was jeered

By his neighbours who thought he was weird.

Their gossip was cruel,

And they called him a fool,

Even plotted to have his face sheared.

Glad to say though, our man persevered

And you know that these days he is cheered.

They don’t see him as sordid,
Since he was awarded,
The Cup for the World’s Greatest Beard.

Chaos Theory

The Second Law of Thermodynamics, the most fundamental of all natural laws: Everything tends to chaos.

My Mum told me to tidy up my squalid little mess;

She’s tired of all the clothes that lie around when I undress.

But just one look around my room’s enough to make me flee,

Then when she finds out where I’m hid I get the third degree.

And usually then she gets so mad she grounds me in my quarters,

And doesn’t let me out ‘til I’ve done everything I oughta.

It takes me hours and hours, you know it really isn’t fair,

Why should I be the one to have to tidy up in there?

And just because some aunt or other’s coming round for tea,

I have to spend all afternoon indoors – with no T.V!

But think of this, you know it’s true; it isn’t worth the trouble,

‘Cause in a day or two, no more, the chaos will be double.

It just builds up all by itself, quite of its own volition;

It’s like my room and all my clothes are on a secret mission

To generate disorder, (makes no odds if I take part).

It really is enough to make a boy like me lose heart.

Seems nature finds a tidy room a true abomination

And she considers anarchy a cause for celebration.

I told my Mum that scientific proof exists to show;

A tidy room has no place in the natural ebb and flow.

But she just frowns as she surveys the warzone panoramic,

Her laws know thermal underwear but not thermodynamics.

Willie McJohnson's Bad News

Willie McJohnson got some bad news;

He went to the Doctor, who said,

“I’m afraid you are suffering from multiple flu’s

And what’s more you’ve a cold in the head.

You’re being attacked by bacteria and germs

And a virus or two, which ain’t good,

And your liver and kidneys aren’t on speaking terms

And your heart is too weak to pump blood.

I’ll prescribe you injections and potions and pills

Which taste nasty and make you feel sore,

But in truth, I’m afraid there’s no cure for your ills;

You got three months to live, maybe four.”

Willie was shattered, this terrible news

Was too much to take in at one time,

He decided to go where they just sing the blues,

And drink Mexican beer with lime.

And he moaned and he howled like a bluesman in pain,

Which I guess if you do, then you are,

Till a picker from Tupelo named Hurricane

Kept him company on his guitar.

As he wailed he felt better, it’s easy to see;

If you’re blue, then the blues must come out,

And a singer is what he had wanted to be

Till he’d lost his ambition in doubt.

So he sang through the night, and the crowd shared his pain,

And he made them feel better inside.

And at five in the morning he boarded a train

With Hurricane still by his side.

They’d decided to travel all over the world

Making friends, and sharing their muse,

(And maybe they’d get to meet a few girls

Who would fall for their brand of the blues).

“Well”, he said, “if I have to go soon I’ll go well

And I’ll live my last days to the max.

And when the time comes to bid you farewell –

No regrets, no alas and alacks.”

So they travelled the world, and they did all those things

That they’d said they would do some fine day,

And with howling of moans and with bending of strings

They moved hearts in each town where they’d play.

And Willie looked up the old friends who he’d lost

By not staying in touch or through quarrels,

And he made peace again, fighting through all their frost,

And their anger or indignant morals.

Through the tears and the laughter forgiveness was found,

And the journey grew happy and brighter,

And when they found that they were back on home ground

Willie's mood was not dark now but lighter.

Then he suddenly thought, “Hang on there just a minute,

If today is the twelfth of July,

That means four months have passed, and I’ve gone past my limit;

Yesterday was the day I should die!”

So he went to the doc who first passed his life sentence

To demand some expert explanation,

And the doc was so sorry, he was full of repentance,

In the face of Willie’s indignation.

“It seems you’re quite well, there’s no sign and no trace

Of the bugs that dragged you to death’s door.

I declare that you’re fine, I can see from your face

That you’ll live ninety years, maybe more.”

“So I needn’t have gone round the world singing songs

That made all those who heard shed a tear!

And I rekindled friendships where things had gone wrong,

With the ones who I once held so dear,

Thinking this was my last chance, it was now or never.

And I lived like each day was my last,

And all ‘cause my doc ain’t too bright or too clever

All my dreams I’ve achieved and surpassed.

So it’s your fault I’ve lived, like I wanted to live,

And I did what I’d wanted to do.

And found I had something to share and to give,

Well all I can say is… thank you!”