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Archive for the ‘Humour’ Category

Some of my readers may remember the Ballad of Brave Monty Mouse from the early days of My Telegraph. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this small rodent, well done! But he does amuse small children and even some of their parents,  so thank you, Monty for being the inspiration for this story.

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Aloft at night, and on the prowl,
Softly glides this wise old owl.
The mice stay quivering in the corn,
How can they feed before the dawn?

A brilliant Harvest moon shone bright over fields of ripening grains waiting to be safely gathered in. To the small harvest mice, their small tummies distended with the results of their foraging, replete and snug in their nest, it was also a time of danger. But not tonight. They sensed the faint whisper of wings as the owl glided low over the ripe grains but with such a bountiful harvest they did not need to feed just yet. They slept contented but only Monty, their brave leader, contemplated the dangers ahead.

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Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.

She sheds her tippet, grasps her fan, and holds her head up high.
Her heart beats fast, her cheeks flush pink; a well-bred butterfly.
The staircase loomed and down below the “ton” all gazed enrapt.
The music faltered, dancers stood, the whole assembly clapped.

Our debutante, quite nervous now, commences her descent.
She trips and falls headlong, I fear, and nothing can prevent
A precipitous arrival, on the ballroom floor below –
She landed at the Prince’s feet, pantaloons on show!

Entry to poetry competition.

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Ode to a Strawberry Roan

A flighty filly, highly strung,
Prone to sudden shies.
The dogs attack, in fun no doubt,
In gleeful barking cries.

The hounds close in, she tossed her mane,
And in a sudden rush,
Her rider landed, winded now,
Into a handy bush

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No good deed goes unpunished

( So shines a good deed in a naughty World)

by Franklin P. Adams

There was a man in our town who had King Midas’ touch;

He gave away his millions to the colleges and such;

And people cried: “The hypocrite! He ought to understand

The ones who really need him are the children of this land!”

 

When Andrew Croesus built a home for children who were sick,

The people said they rather thought he did it as a trick,

And writers said: “He thinks about the drooping girls and boys,

But what about conditions with the men whom he employs?”

 

There was a man in our town who said that he would share

His profits with his laborers, for that was only fair,

And people said: “Oh, isn’t he the shrewd and foxy gent?

It cost him next to nothing for that free advértisement!”

 

There was a man in our town who had the perfect plan

To do away with poverty and other ills of man,

But he feared the public jeering, and the folks who would defame him,

So he never told the plan he had, and I can hardly blame him.

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Just bin it!

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It rained and rained, and in the nest,
They shook their duvets sadly.
The damp was dire, and all were stressed;
The mice were faring badly.

Hips, haws, and berries for their needs
Were in the grain store dank.
‘Twas also full of mildewed seeds,
Monty’s spirits sank.

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A cannibal, newly converted,
was rather a tad disconcerted
when his honeymoon sweetie
spurned everything meaty
as though it were something perverted.

Though initially pleased with his wife
and the wonders of spiritual life,
t’was a shock to discover
his  meat-averse lover
had struck at his heart like a knife.

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