WRITTEN FOR THE MAG
GIVING ME THE EYE
Everybody noticed it.....the way he ogled me.
His obvious obsession was very plain to see.
He was what they called 'unsavoury', with his awful unwashed look
And his piercing eyes, like those of a fiend in an old-time picture book.
He played the violin well, of course, that couldn't be denied,
But I grew increasingly repulsed by the way that I was eyed.
One day, when he'd approached me, much to my consternation,
I went up to the Leader and tended my resignation.
I returned to my little attic room extremely heavy-hearted,
I'd had great ambitions when my career had started.
Still, I knew it was up to me, to seek another avenue:
Practise, practise, practise, that was all that I could do.
Taking music-stand and music and my precious violin
I just squared my shoulders, all ready to begin.
But I'd forgotten my metronome! And then I gave a cry!
As I took it out of the cupboard the thing gave me the eye!
Farmer Jones had some little sheep that never had been mated,
And now he hoped to mate them; see some little lambs created.
Farmer Smith, from over the hill, had a ram with a reputation
And Farmer Jones made arrangements to improve his situation.
He put his sheep in the wheelbarrow and trundled them over the hill
And Farmer Smith's very famous ram did his duty with a will.
The sheep were trundled back again and Farmer Jones just waited
To see if there were any results with the sheep that he'd had mated.
He asked his wife to check the sheep and she made her report;
The visit to the Smith's old ram had simply come to nought.
So Farmer Jones took his barrow and loaded the sheep once more,
Taking them to Farmer Smith as he had done before.
The ram was really delighted and sowed some more wild oats,
Unperturbed by on-lookers such as cows and goats.
Once more the journey was fruitless; it seemed no lambs were due,
And Farmer Jones soon realised there was nothing he could do
But return to the Smiths a final time and just hope for the best,
Hoping the ram wasn't too worn-out and simply needing rest.
The sheep returned, the days went by; his wife went out to check.
Farmer Jones, by this time, was really a nervous wreck.
She couldn't find the sheep at first, but, when she did, she cried
'They're already in the wheelbarrow, dear, just waiting for the ride!'