The island of broken biscuits

Dashed to crumbs, my hopes and my dreams,
Where tropical colour’s not all that it seems,
Where reds and magentas turn beiges and creams,
Where crushing confectionery’s one of life’s themes,
And the water-wheel’s powered by fast-flowing streams,
And life appears normal out at the extremes,
On the island of broken biscuits.

On driving through cloud to Chirche to an Abba soundtrack

We slithered down the road to fate uncertain,
The clouds were thick and turns quite hard to guess.
Mama mia! Was this our final curtain?
Would we be sending out an SOS?
Black as night, we had no voulez view,
And thought we might well face our Waterloo.

The sad demise of Mr Jones

The pool’s roped off with yellow tape,
The day is growing dark.
Right now he’s just a starfish shape
Down near the eight foot mark.
His wife is in an awful way
Outside the poolside wing.
She blames herself, bystanders say,
For throwing him that ring.
He got a touch of cramp, they state,
And called for her assistance,
But seemingly the ring’s dead weight
O’erpowered his resistance.
Oh yes, it was a dreadful thing
That floored poor Mr Jones.
So which of you took that lifeguard’s ring
And filled it up with stones?

Whale watching

They bring you out to watch the whales
And watch the dolphins too.
With outboard motors or with sails,
They scour the ocean blue.
The boats all wander passively,
Not wishing to confront them,
But oh, how much more fun they’d be
If they brought folk out to hunt them.

Dragonfly

The massive purple dragonfly
Sat humming by the pool.
He was an inoffensive guy,
Just trying to keep cool.
Then Emmet sent a tidal wave
Of water ‘pon its head,
And though we tried our best to save
Him, Dragonfly was dead.

Turbulence

The ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign came on
As we were flying to Crete.
The stewardess announced that one
Should go back to one’s seat.
The public took it in their stride,
The seatbelts all clicked true
And then the pilot came outside
And went into the loo.

"The only bleedin' turbulence is in that feller's stomach."

Twelve year old whiskey

The crowds have dispersed
And the bubble has burst
And the bar-room is quiet once more.
The bartender jokes
With some hillbilly folks
While Conchita and Raul sweep the floor.
A man with a scar
Eyes the till on the bar
But decides that it may be too risky.
On an old upturned crate
Reclines twelve year old Kate
With a bottle of twelve year old whiskey.

The jukebox is playing
A song sad and swaying,
The click of the pool cue cracks loud.
The dawn is approaching,
Reality encroaching,
Stale smoke hangs above in a cloud.
A maudlin old hag
Takes a drag of her fag
And recalls how she used to be frisky,
And though it is late,
There sits twelve year old Kate
With a bottle of twelve year old whiskey.

Reality bites,
Someone turns up the lights,
The customers shirk from the glare.
The corner chair scrapes,
The old hag escapes
And the hillbillies slump in the chair.
Raul gives dark looks
As he does up the books,
Typing slowly in case he might miss-key.
And in a drawn, haggard state,
The young twelve year old Kate
Drains the last of her twelve year old whiskey.

.

Looking at the menu one night, Emmet remarked "Hey Kate, they have whiskey especially for you!"