Silly Poem/ Smoking can damage your health.

[tiddy ogg]

Inspired by a passage in "Is It Me?" by Terry Wogan, (BBC 2000.)

In south western Ireland, the county of Kerry
Stands, bravely withstanding The Atlantic foam,
And there Mick Mahoney one evening got merry,
But thought himself fit yet to drive himself home.

Now children, I beg you, these exploits don't copy,
Your fate will be worse on today's roads,I feel.
For Mick rolled across to his beat-up jalopy,
And after a struggle sat gripping the wheel.

More dents than a golf ball, more scratched than an itch,
The car was in hue a rust-brown.
The holes in the door sills were filled up with pitch,
And the windows would never roll down.

The tyres were as thin as a tissue of lies,
The wipers missed most of the screen.
The boot was a home for the breeding of flies,
And an oil trail showed where it had been.

So Mick turned the key, then he pulled on the string,
Which led to an old rubber garter,
That hooked o'er the top of the solenoid thing,
Engaging thereby the car's starter.

The engine groaned, spluttered, coughed, rattled and yet
It ran, and smoke belched from the rear,
And Mick settled back, lit a foul cigarette
And crunched the old heap into gear.

He weaves down the street in a cloud of blue fumes,
To the old motor's unmuffled roar,
'Til his blurred vision spots that an incline now looms
And he puts his right foot to the floor.

The worn-out old pistons rattle and slap
And gas tthrough the piston rings passes,
But the car, well before it has reached the hill's cap
Is more slow than a snail in molasses.

Mick's cigarette now has burned down to its tip,
And his lips feel the warmth of its glow,
Mick opens the door with the butt in his grip,
Throws it out... but forgets to let go.

In the south west of Ireland, at that time of night,
The highway is wholly deserted,
So, though what befell him caused Mick quite a fright,
'Twas only his rump and pride hurted.

Mick gets to his feet, brushes off the loose tar,
And finds that he's not hardly bleeding,
But then turns around in his search for the car...
Which downhill is swiftly receding.

In The highway our man stares, regaining his nerve
But can only stand and deliver
Foul curses - the car doesn't take the sharp curve,
But backwards rolls, into the river.

Back home to his cottage our Mick now must walk;
Here's his sweet little wife at the door
With rolling pin - she doesn't waste time on talk,
But beats poor Mick down to the floor.

So men I implore you, do not drive and drink,
Your fortunes may fare even worse,
And give up tobacco, but mostly I think,
Shun women, they're naught but a curse.



(The verse form changes a bit after the first two stanzas, but I think it flows OK. I'm not changing it now, anyway.)

[Black Canyon]

That is wonderful!

[Duckers]

Wow... That's truly amazing. It really is. Your poetic skill surpasses any other that I have had the fortune to bear witness to. Keep it up, Ogg. I'm lookin' forward to more of your creations.

[the_antisocial_hermit]

Hehe...

[tiddy ogg]

Thanks folks. There's plenty more on my site, though most is not fit for delicate souls, or indeed anyone.
If you've the time, a couple of my favourites are my monstrously long take on the Grey Dolphin legend:
http://www.tiddyogg.co.uk/gdolphin.htm
and the bawdier tale of Grace and Arabella sailing the waves:
http://www.tiddyogg.co.uk/mahon.htm

If you visit the rest of the site, I urge you to read the warnings of the nature of much of it.

[fishfin]

Shun women, they're naught but a curse.

Yes, women are a curse.

[west]

T.Ogg, that's wonderful.
Although I prefer to think of it as a warning against driving.