Writings to my nephews
These writings have achieved the goal I set while composing them. The goal is simple: make two boys laugh.
Piece of nougat
Play a tuba
You’re a baluba.
Fry it up
Roger the bum the son of a gun,
A pick a flick, urrrrrrrgh that’s Limersick,
Finger buried up to the knuckle,
Like a bee in the pollen of a honey-suckle.
Sometimes green or yellow or not,
The greatest meal ever is deep-fried snot.
I apologise to Goran straight away,
No sensible rhymes will come today.
His name is awkward, somewhat obtuse,
His face reminds me, of a plucked goose.
My heart says no, my head says go on,
Goran you’re a prize MO-RON.
Alas Dr. Sun he is the weakest,
He fell in the grass and hurt his wrist,
I heard a feather fell on his head,
He hit the deck and looked almost dead.
You’d flatten that lad with a slice of bread,
Or so the rabid monkey said.
Enjoy A&E it’s a wonderful place,
Ask them Sun to fix your face,
And if they’ve some spare tape and gum,
They might fix your older brother’s bum.
What a fun time with the boy who is nine,
I think you sorta know the gist,
The tale of the boy with the broken wrist,
No cracks in bones were going to stop him,
Throwing, running, even a swim.
Well calling it a swim is rather generous,
Less like a dolphin, more like a platypus,
You’ll miss your Cúl Camp which is tough luck,
I bet you wanted to shout out “F**K!”
Ah well, drive on, it could be worse,
Don’t resort to a simple curse.
Think of all the jobs you can do,
Like that thing and t’other thing too.
Good night good night, Sleep well gentlemen,
Tomorrow’s another day. I bit you adieu.
There was an auld lad named Goran,
His interests I find very borin’
His brain is like slush
His face is like mush
And he has a penchant for snorin’
There was a young man named Sun
Who had a rather large bum
His face was like stew
His hair was like glue
And his breath smelled like elephant poo.