Yelling!

YELLING!

There was a young lady from Welling,

Who, it seemed, was addicted to yelling.

Her neighbours, who knew it,

Said 'Why do you do it?'
But she simply yelled 'I'm not telling!'
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And an old letter 'Y' for good measure.

YARD SALE


I'm addicted to the second-hand, the bargain and the snip,
A Yard Sale may be far away but I yearn to make a trip.
To rummage through another's 'stuff' is tantamount to bliss.
Even though you'll sometimes hear me mutter 'Fancy selling this!'
The wares look full of promise when they're piled-up on the floor,
Even though I'm never really certain what I'd use them for.
I'm hopelessly impractical, but I've got imagination;
My husband tends to shy away with a look of indignation
When I say 'Oh look! A broken lamp! You could fix that quick as lightening!'
I get a smouldering sort of glance that's really rather frightening.
' How about that little chair? You could fix the broken seat!'
Or 'That just needs a lick of paint! You could make it look quite sweet!'
I even try dishonesty, saying 'I only wish that I
Were capable of fixing things! But I can't although I try!'
He knows I never try at all; I'm much too busy writing!
The world of paint and screwdriver has never been inviting.
So we've got an awful lot of stuff that's cluttering up the place;
I believe the area in the roof's an absolute disgrace!
So many good intentions (those jobs with him in mind)
That anything that's really ours is always hard to find.
'We must get rid of this rubbish!' he is inclined to wail.
'I know! I've got a great idea!

Let us have our own Yard Sale!'
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