Never munch your lunch in bed; instead
Feed hedgehog wedges to your sons in buns
(They’ll grumble over crumbs and beg for eggs!)
On the courtyard floor, by the porch to the door,
Was a native of the sporting poor.
He had been born on a cold Sunday morn
Whilst his father watched internet porn,
He only ate pork, and when given some chalk,
Wrote his name as Corkey O’Rourke.
When he was only short, he used to cavort
As a king on the old Roman fort,
And come rain or come storm his old ripped uniform,
Kept the old boy alive, kept him warm.
But one day our señor, he stood up from the door,
And decamped to explore Ecuador,
Where he opened a forge in a dried up old gorge
And bizarrely renamed himself George.
He’d walk round his fiord with a battered old sword
And an Argentine made harpsichord,
And he taught himself Morse and bought a white horse,
On whom he’d perform inter…national eventing, or something like that…
For R of the W S's, take Oil of Cajuput: Al Cowie's musings on the world