supplied the illustration
A TALL STORY
Monty Moore was very tall;
He'd been like that since birth;
After all his father
Was The Tallest Man on Earth.
That was how they billed him
When he was a circus act;
And, at nearly seven feet two,
His tallness was a fact.
Mrs Moore (formerly Archibald)
Was only five foot three;
To tell the truth, she only reached
Half-way to her husband's knee!
Now procreating was quite an art,
(Consider the logistics);
In fact a happy outcome
Is rare, say the statistics.
However, Monty Moore was born,
And it shocked his mother, rather,
To see he'd inherited all the genes
Of his most unusual father.
Not only that but the tiny lad
Screamed like a caterwauler ,
And it seemed he would out-do his dad
And be very, very much taller!
He had to sleep in a single bed
Instead of in a cot.
And when it came to cuddles
He was no teeny dot;
He overflowed his mother
Till his feet dragged on the floor
And early in the piece she muttered
'I can't take much more.'
His father pined for the circus
And went back to circus life,
Leaving his elongated son
And his itsy-bitsy wife.
Mrs Moore was left to cope
With her ever-growing boy;
And winced whenever someone said
'Motherhood's such a joy.'
I'll skate over his childhood,
Which was nothing like the norm.
(Consider the bike he needed!
Consider his uniform!)
I'll skate over his love-life,
Which filled the girls with terror;
He wasn't as adept as his Dad;
It was all trial and error.
I'll skate over his middle years
Which were troublingly grotesque.
He couldn't fit inside a car,
Or fit behind a desk.
So we come to the final moments,
During which he died..........
Now they had to find a coffin
That he could fit inside!
Mother had long-since passed-away,
She was worn-out by her plight,
And cousin Fred (who was five foot one)
Said 'We'll have to see him right.
We'll need to pay for a long, long grave!'
Said Marlene, acrimonious;
'I'm not paying over the odds!
Your suggestion is erroneous!
I hardly knew the wretched man.......
Was his name Doug or Dave?......
I certainly wont contribute
To a stretch-limousine type of grave!'
So Monty Moore was buried
Sort of folded in half,
And even the undertakers
Couldn't help but have a laugh!
Years later his sorry story
Was printed by the local press
And all the readers sobbed and cried
Considering his distress.
They started the Monty Memorial fund
Which raised a lot of money,
Even though some contributors
Found the whole thing rather funny.
They paid for a mighty memorial
That reaches to the sky;
Its bold Victorian grandeur
Is noticed by passers-by.
'That must commemorate someone great!'
Some folk are heard to say.
'He must have been a Leader,
A Hero in his day!'
No longer is Monty a laughing-stock;
No longer is he thought weird;
At last his height is glorified.
And Monty is revered.
TOWARD THE LIGHT.
Steep, never-ending, exhausting.
Sun-lit, shadow-dappled, rising.
The concert-hall lies beyond.