Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Shillelagh



 The public house at closing hour,
 Knew Tom's call for a gimlet sour.
 Though that damson tart looked plump,
 Tom called out for more beef rump.
 A slow-eyed hubby's grafted wife,
 White Lady took the seed to life.
 Then from sheep the ram got torn,
 She bade him drink some good blackthorn.
 Distilled from sloe, medicinal gin,
 Liquor allayed Tom's life of sin.
 Then the good wife herself got ripped,
 To stalwart cudgels for Tory whips.

The Mole's Last Supper

 A solemn Mole came from a hole,
 To catch a lunch of tender sole.
"I've Lost my Sole", so sang the Mole,
 And held up high his fishing pole.

 He drank a drop of salty sloe,
"O Sole Mio", he sang also.
 Then set a fire with lumps of coal,
 And slowly downed his meal of sole.

"In Hell's Hotel, there lies a gal.
 A little mole for whom I fell.
 On her pillow, upon her bed,
 I'm madly tethered, fated pledged!

 "Mind me not, as I seek a ledge.
  I'll blindly jump, and float to sea.
  One more Mole, to eternity."


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