Publishers of Passive Complicity invited themselves to our Poetry Editor, Ira Maine’s Country Seat for a serious business meeting. Ira was concerned, however, that Quentin Cockburn would deliberately shorten his (Ira’s) life by infecting him with the rampant dose of flu that he is carrying. (Cecil Poole, robust as ever, has no such fears, deluded man that he is.)
Our gallant and ever modest Poetry Editor took to verse to alert us to his concerns, proclaiming: “Another priceless jewelled treasure, entitled;”
One Flu’ Over
There was a guy I lately knew,
Fella by the name of Drew
Who thought it quite the thing to do,
To invite his mate around (with ‘flu)
And offer us, by free dispenser,
Ten days of awful influenza.
Nor cared a fig by day or night
That he’d confer on us a blight?
Fella by the name of Drew
Who thought it quite the thing to do,
To invite his mate around (with ‘flu)
And offer us, by free dispenser,
Ten days of awful influenza.
Nor cared a fig by day or night
That he’d confer on us a blight?
The blokes so nice, so full of charm,
He’d hardly do us any harm?
You’d ne’er suspect he was desirous
Of stuffing up our lungs with virus!
I told him stop! you cannot come!
Reversed my fist; bent down the thumb
And said ‘Fridaze a really dumb day!’
“OK’ he cried,’We’ll come on Monday!’
And, as if to nearly make us cry,
He said, ‘Look here, I’ll bring a pie,
And pots of things for the occasion.
Would you like some Yuletide decoration?’
‘As for your boots- I’ll bring some Dubbin!
Fresh butterflies and Dave McCubbin!’
He’s the one, twixt me and you
Who says he’s now not got the ‘flu,
If this be lies, tell all and sundry,
I’ll box his fucking ears on Monday!
You’d ne’er suspect he was desirous
Of stuffing up our lungs with virus!
I told him stop! you cannot come!
Reversed my fist; bent down the thumb
And said ‘Fridaze a really dumb day!’
“OK’ he cried,’We’ll come on Monday!’
And, as if to nearly make us cry,
He said, ‘Look here, I’ll bring a pie,
And pots of things for the occasion.
Would you like some Yuletide decoration?’
‘As for your boots- I’ll bring some Dubbin!
Fresh butterflies and Dave McCubbin!’
He’s the one, twixt me and you
Who says he’s now not got the ‘flu,
If this be lies, tell all and sundry,
I’ll box his fucking ears on Monday!
Having no idea when to stop he added this a day or two later
Now you’re up here, away from home,
(Not too insulted by the poem)
Not answering in sentence terse
Insinuations from my verse.
Not going home, your plans reversin’,
Not bidding ‘cheerio’ to Merton,
Or pleading with your mate, Jeremy,
To take me out the back and bury me.
I feel it safe now to emerge,
Now that I’ve come back from the verge.
By Monday lunch, if you’re not calmer,
I’ll probably wear a suit of armour!
(Not too insulted by the poem)
Not answering in sentence terse
Insinuations from my verse.
Not going home, your plans reversin’,
Not bidding ‘cheerio’ to Merton,
Or pleading with your mate, Jeremy,
To take me out the back and bury me.
I feel it safe now to emerge,
Now that I’ve come back from the verge.
By Monday lunch, if you’re not calmer,
I’ll probably wear a suit of armour!
(Can Poetry Sunday get any better than this?)