The Peak of My Poetry Career

Portly brought a fish in last night. Mum texted to tell me that the pond was finally thawed and dad had been delighted to find that two of the fish had survived the Winter — that is, he had been pleased until he came in later and tripped over one the cat had left on the living room carpet.

There is now only one fish left but between Portly and the heron (Portly and the Heron would make an excellent title for a children’s book by the way) who knows how long that will last. Chances are, the heron will get the last one since Nim is currently under threat of being made into a hat.

This is why we find the Simon’s Cat videos so funny.

Anyway, it descended into the creation of a couple of limericks. It’s difficult to find something to rhyme with Nimbus (his actual name) but Nuggan and Nim aren’t too difficult. All the same, they were terrible rhymes and I can honestly hold my hand up and say that poetry is not my forte. Modern poetry particularly frustrates me — it hasn’t the rhythm and melody of the old kind, it’s just prose with random line breaks.

That conversation reminded me, though, that I had attempted a fair amount of verse in my younger years. With that thought came the remembrance of a poem I had composed (with a little help from my parents) while sitting in a traffic jam caused by the dreaded Opens (we were just trying to go to the beach, we’ve never cared for golf). I was eleven years old.

As it happens, I still have a copy and as I read, I realised just what influence Spike Milligan, Pam Ayres, and Roald Dahl were on my young mind, as you will see.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my one masterful ballad, the somewhat frivolous pinnacle of my poetic career.

* * *

When Tiger Woods Hit a Golf Ball and it Got Stuck Up My Nose

Tiger Woods strolled onto the course,
Being careful not to fall,
It was his big game at the Opens
And he’d brought his new golf ball.
As he was about to swing,
He struck a manly pose;
The ball went sailing through the air
And got stuck up my nose.
There was a bit of chaos,
Where the ball was, they could not see.
No one knew where it had gone!
(No one except me)
He searched the rough and bunkers
And gazed up at the sun,
Wondering if, at last, he’d made
That elusive hole-in-one.
I rushed home to the doctor
At the finish of the game,
The fact I could not pick my nose
Was driving me insane.
The doctor was excited,
Had it surgic’lly removed,
Said he’d buy it for a million
(If its owner could be proved).
We sent it for histology
And the news came back real good,
Although ’twere covered in my snot
It was surely Tiger Woods’!
Now it’s at the museum
In St Andrews by the sea,
And framed beside it is a photograph
Of Tiger Woods and me.

 

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