Wednesday, October 1, 2008

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?


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.


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."