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I haven't posted any rhyming poetry lately, so here's one I finished last night. The rhythm isn't perfect yet, but at least I (finally) have a working draft.
The Hopelessness of the Egg Condition
Old Man Dumpty had a fall
last Wednesday when the lights were out;
they say he climbed his garden wall
and fell pell-mell without a shout.
They say he meant to clear away
the ivy growing thick and fast.
They say he must have slipped and swayed
and landed on the stones and smashed.
No one wonders whether he
was happy on that Wednesday night.
They only tried to patch him up;
they cried and tried with all their might.
To no avail, as well you know,
for Old Man Dumpty died.
The story in the paper showed
of course, his sunny side.
We think of him quite kindly,
as an old, old-fashioned grump,
but no one ever wonders whether
Humpty Dumpty
jumped.
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1 comment:
You fixed it!
To no avail, as well you know,
for Old Man Dumpty died.
The story in the paper showed
of course, his sunny side.
That's still my favourite part. I don't know anyone else who writes about the obituaries of breakfast foods.
Do you think the townspeople buried him, or held a cremation. If they did, they could probably feed hundreds with Humpty's scrambled remains. Supposing that dumpty's tragic fate was not a suicide, and if his death was a recipe for deliciousness, then I would deem this to be a happy "egg"cident. Tee hee.
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