Monday, August 4, 2008

84. Froggy Pond

IMPORTED POEM (I'd never be so politically incorrect!)

Through Blogging I have met-up with an old friend, Rob. We lived in the village of Alton together sixty years ago. When I say 'lived together' that was far from the case! He was a Catholic, I was the daughter of the Headmaster of the local Church of England School! Any hobnobbing was frowned upon .Remember those days? Not that hobnobbing was ever on the cards; I don't think either of us had much sex-appeal at that stage! In any case, it was his sister, Dorothy, who was the link.

Rob mistakenly thought I wanted contributions to my Rinkly Rimes and he sent me this offering. I think it's so witty that I'm including it. The anti-French sentiments are entirely the work of the author! (He's probably referring to garlic!) I gather he was on holiday in France at the time.
A harking back to the Good (?) Old Days can be seen on my Clickpicks Blog!


This is the tale of Grandad Rob,
Performer of each menial job,
Who paid a brief hygienic visit,
And suffered embarrassment exquisite
One sunny morning, plans were laid
By she-who-always-is-obeyed,
A little task for him to do:
" Please throw away the barbecue"
So off he went, with style and grace,
The properly appointed place
-A plastic skip beside the road,
Receptacle of noxious load.
The flapping door he opened wide,
A dreadful smell flowed from inside,
Effluvia coming straight from hell:
The quintessential gallic smell.
With hastily averted gaze,
And muttered francophobic phrase,
He threw the barbie in, and then
Approached his motorcar again.
But now catastrophe ensued:
A little thing, but very rude.
This news your living blood will freeze
-He'd thrown away his bunch of keys.
And six feet down the keys you'd see,
(Or metres one-point-eighty-three)
They nestled there - o cursed luck
-Upon a bed of froggy muck.
At first he reached in with his arm,
Like fishing in a sewage farm.
A leg then tried he - no more luck
In fact, he almost got it stuck.
The problem stayed, but only more so,
Inserted he his upper torso,
And there he hung, with legs a-kimbo
Within his own putrescent limbo.
He tried to sort this impasse out,
While all his loved ones fell about.
So, added to the smell mephitic,
He'd now a fam'ly paralytic.
Veronica then, all clever-cloggish
-Well versed is she in matters boggish
She solved her father's smelancholy!
She used the good old British brolly
Extended by a hook of wire
She saved the keys from durance dire
But now, it seems, his hopes grow dim
Nobody wants to talk to him.
The reason is, with all this stench
They clearly think he must be French.


Anonymous said...

re Clickpicks SPORTIF: I have known you since the 1950s, at least, and I did not recognise you in this picture! In appearance you have changed, you have made changes that work. Hooray! If Rob is talking about your personbality, no, you haven't changed - you always spouted, you were always funny, and verbally creative with words and music. The change that has occurred over the years is that you have been able to find a way to perform it all professionally, and now to the world! Please do keep it up Brenda!

Kat said...

Oho... This is the poem associated with your clickpics's pics....

I think you look pretty sweet in the pics Brenda.... tho' you wrote there 'blast' :-)))) for your friend's comment..!!!!

and this poem... you can make one smell things...!!! People are wondering why I'm walking around holding my nose :-))))