tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8034945572926731772024-03-13T18:12:55.159+00:00Pete's Holiday PoemsA series of light verse written by the pool on various Summer holidaysPeter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-61938050203563811132009-09-13T15:57:00.000+01:002009-09-13T16:00:11.287+01:00Trapped<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/Sq0I3nphkWI/AAAAAAAAB04/gj__tHKX3Ow/s1600-h/Broken_Toilet_Door.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380966881406587234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/Sq0I3nphkWI/AAAAAAAAB04/gj__tHKX3Ow/s400/Broken_Toilet_Door.jpg" border="0" /></a> A couple of pints and I needed to go.<br />My bladder was straining and heaving and so<br />I made my excuses and rose from the table<br />And dashed off as quick as my fat legs were able.<br /><br />One cubicle only, (there was no urinal,)<br />Beautifully painted in coats of matt vinyl.<br />I locked the door firmly and then (to be brief)<br />I had thirty seconds of blesséd relief.<br /><br />And when I was finished, I turned (as you do)<br />And pulled the lock clockwise to exit the loo.<br />The lock slid quite smoothly around in the groove,<br />But when I pushed outwards, the door wouldn’t move.<br /><br />I tried it again and I turned the lock back,<br />Thinking perhaps there was some kind of knack,<br />But though I pressed down and I turned and I twisted,<br />That thick and inert toilet door just resisted.<br /><br />I glanced at the window but it was too small,<br />Off’ring no escape for a fat man at all.<br />And so I returned to the troublesome lock,<br />Half-hoping, half-fearing that someone would knock.<br /><br />I hadn’t my phone and the loo was too far<br />From the clamorous singing that came from the bar.<br />No-one would hear if I hollered and knocked<br />So I gave out to God that the door should be locked.<br /><br />Oh, how was I going to get out of here?<br />Would they phone 999 when I didn’t appear?<br />Would they think I’d a problem in holding my beer?<br />Or maybe assume I had bad diarrhoea?<br /><br />At last, in the throes of my deepest despair,<br />I heard a small voice asking was I in there?<br />It was my nephew, my ten year old saviour,<br />Who I’d just admonished for his bold behaviour.<br /><br />“I’m locked in the toilet!” I shouted with urgency.<br />“Go and find help, this is quite an emergency!”<br />“I know how the lock works,” he answered with guile,<br />And I well could imagine his broadening smile.<br /><br />“I’ll give you two euro?” I took the large hint,<br />Thoroughly sick of my half hour stint.<br />“Twenty!” he said and I spluttered with anger<br />Quite at the mercy of this vengeful langer.<br /><br />“No way!” I yelled back, more in wrath than in sorrow.<br />“Okay,” came the answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”<br />“No wait!” I cried out, with my head in a tizz.<br />“You mercenary bollix you, twenty it is.”<br /><br />“Turn the lock halfway,” my nephew replied,<br />And sure, it swung open the moment I tried.<br />He held out his hand and I paid with bad grace,<br />Ruefully watching the grin on his face. <br /><br />So all you still list’ning, the moral is clear –<br />Spending a penny can end up quite dear.<br />Pay heed to my story, don’t do what I did,<br />Unless you aren’t bothered to spend twenty quid.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-76641010700817567572009-09-13T12:40:00.001+01:002009-09-13T12:44:22.214+01:00The dark dark shape at the bottom of the pool<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/Sqza-ewBf2I/AAAAAAAAB0w/y0ruw_zS7Mc/s1600-h/pool.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380916421742133090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/Sqza-ewBf2I/AAAAAAAAB0w/y0ruw_zS7Mc/s400/pool.bmp" border="0" /></a> We couldn’t make out exactly what it was,<br />The dark dark shape at the bottom of the pool.<br />Neil said he thought it was a chair because<br />He thought that the bar was missing a stool.<br /><br />Sadly for us it was too far down<br />For any of us to investigate.<br />Emmet thought a ball, or a dressing gown.<br />“Doesn’t look like either to me,” said Kate.<br /><br />Eventually we sought out Grandad’s advice<br />As to whether ‘twas a chair or gown or ball,<br />But though we went round the poolside twice<br />Alas! We could not find Grandad at all.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-76516356052288601732008-10-01T05:27:00.004+01:002008-10-01T05:29:01.003+01:00The island of broken biscuits<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL8dlZcuWI/AAAAAAAAA6w/dUWUmdc5v-w/s1600-h/biscuits.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252037700652677474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL8dlZcuWI/AAAAAAAAA6w/dUWUmdc5v-w/s400/biscuits.jpg" border="0" /></a> Dashed to crumbs, my hopes and my dreams,<br />Where tropical colour’s not all that it seems,<br />Where reds and magentas turn beiges and creams,<br />Where crushing confectionery’s one of life’s themes,<br />And the water-wheel’s powered by fast-flowing streams,<br />And life appears normal out at the extremes,<br />On the island of broken biscuits.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-9649985634857935692008-10-01T05:26:00.002+01:002008-10-01T05:27:30.246+01:00On driving through cloud to Chirche to an Abba soundtrack<div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL8GK-99zI/AAAAAAAAA6o/ui0kfHVAVjQ/s1600-h/fog_lights.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252037298425296690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL8GK-99zI/AAAAAAAAA6o/ui0kfHVAVjQ/s400/fog_lights.jpg" border="0" /></a> We slithered down the road to fate uncertain,<br />The clouds were thick and turns quite hard to guess.<br />Mama mia! Was this our final curtain?<br />Would we be sending out an SOS?<br />Black as night, we had no voulez view,<br />And thought we might well face our Waterloo.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-21557858213364910822008-10-01T05:08:00.002+01:002008-10-01T05:09:35.968+01:00The sad demise of Mr Jones<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL35Rt57LI/AAAAAAAAA6A/_yBhbS7XWbw/s1600-h/Lifebelt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252032678847966386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL35Rt57LI/AAAAAAAAA6A/_yBhbS7XWbw/s400/Lifebelt.jpg" border="0" /></a> The pool’s roped off with yellow tape,<br />The day is growing dark.<br />Right now he’s just a starfish shape<br />Down near the eight foot mark.<br />His wife is in an awful way<br />Outside the poolside wing.<br />She blames herself, bystanders say,<br />For throwing him that ring.<br />He got a touch of cramp, they state,<br />And called for her assistance,<br />But seemingly the ring’s dead weight<br />O’erpowered his resistance.<br />Oh yes, it was a dreadful thing<br />That floored poor Mr Jones.<br />So which of you took that lifeguard’s ring<br />And filled it up with stones?<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-46420381238535879742008-10-01T05:06:00.002+01:002008-10-01T05:07:19.714+01:00Dragonfly<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL3YhW6x5I/AAAAAAAAA5w/rQeac1EDcB8/s1600-h/dragonfly2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252032116110837650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOL3YhW6x5I/AAAAAAAAA5w/rQeac1EDcB8/s400/dragonfly2.jpg" border="0" /></a> The massive purple dragonfly<br />Sat humming by the pool.<br />He was an inoffensive guy,<br />Just trying to keep cool.<br />Then Emmet sent a tidal wave<br />Of water ‘pon its head,<br />And though we tried our best to save<br />Him, Dragonfly was dead.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-66846000224804859022008-10-01T03:37:00.002+01:002008-10-01T04:52:37.601+01:00Turbulence<div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOLimFh1O4I/AAAAAAAAA4o/ldLiK_h4lIY/s1600-h/fasten_seatbelts.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252009259414403970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SOLimFh1O4I/AAAAAAAAA4o/ldLiK_h4lIY/s400/fasten_seatbelts.jpg" border="0" /></a> The ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign came on<br />As we were flying to Crete.<br />The stewardess announced that one<br />Should go back to one’s seat.<br />The public took it in their stride,<br />The seatbelts all clicked true<br />And then the pilot came outside<br />And went into the loo. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">"<em>The only bleedin' turbulence is in that feller's stomach."</em><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-54550314976150183692008-08-07T11:01:00.002+01:002008-08-07T11:06:10.685+01:00Twelve year old whiskey<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJrIuRPHTEI/AAAAAAAAAvA/uaxorZQhAwk/s1600-h/DSCF0028.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231714614370585666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJrIuRPHTEI/AAAAAAAAAvA/uaxorZQhAwk/s200/DSCF0028.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">The crowds have dispersed<br />And the bubble has burst<br />And the bar-room is quiet once more.<br />The bartender jokes<br />With some hillbilly folks<br />While Conchita and Raul sweep the floor.<br />A man with a scar<br />Eyes the till on the bar<br />But decides that it may be too risky.<br />On an old upturned crate<br />Reclines twelve year old Kate<br />With a bottle of twelve year old whiskey.<br /><br />The jukebox is playing<br />A song sad and swaying,<br />The click of the pool cue cracks loud.<br />The dawn is approaching,<br />Reality encroaching,<br />Stale smoke hangs above in a cloud.<br />A maudlin old hag<br />Takes a drag of her fag<br />And recalls how she used to be frisky,<br />And though it is late,<br />There sits twelve year old Kate<br />With a bottle of twelve year old whiskey.<br /><br />Reality bites,<br />Someone turns up the lights,<br />The customers shirk from the glare.<br />The corner chair scrapes,<br />The old hag escapes<br />And the hillbillies slump in the chair.<br />Raul gives dark looks<br />As he does up the books,<br />Typing slowly in case he might miss-key.<br />And in a drawn, haggard state,<br />The young twelve year old Kate<br />Drains the last of her twelve year old whiskey.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>Looking at the menu one night, Emmet remarked "Hey Kate, they have whiskey especially for you!"</em></div><div align="center"> </div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-59672762290378816632008-08-04T02:32:00.002+01:002008-08-04T19:45:53.110+01:00The subterranean Ostraco blues<div align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbz7a8bGkI/AAAAAAAAAt4/-B-yb_ukKfQ/s1600-h/Plakias+073.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230636219407997506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbz7a8bGkI/AAAAAAAAAt4/-B-yb_ukKfQ/s400/Plakias+073.jpg" border="0" /></a> Plakias is breezy,<br />The moon is cheesey,<br />Nico jumps boats and says it is easy.<br />Crickets keep humming,<br />Andreas keeps coming,<br />Don’t throw the paper and mess up the plumbing.<br />Watch out Kate!<br />Carrots on the plate!<br />Maria is singing,<br />Aftersun’s stinging,<br />Point out the star, on which we’ve been swinging,<br />Get down, Emmet,<br />Stop that tomfoolery,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman looking at the jewellery.<br /><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzzE_cBKI/AAAAAAAAAtw/W_fx23giNvs/s1600-h/Plakias+078.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230636076076106914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzzE_cBKI/AAAAAAAAAtw/W_fx23giNvs/s400/Plakias+078.jpg" border="0" /></a> Dave’s gone smoking,<br />Áine’s joking,<br />Cicadas are croaking<br />Monica and Brenda are Malibu and Coking,<br />Drink is flowing,<br />Emmet says he’s going,<br />Kate’s gone to watch the video that’s showing.<br />Come back Kate!<br />There’s olives on the plate!<br />Adonis is walking,<br />Frau Fred’s stalking,<br />Down on the beach the goose is squawking.<br />Maria and Anna get<br />Ice-creams from the freezer,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman wearing out my Visa.<br /><br /><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzpV9F_nI/AAAAAAAAAto/tko2_delAo4/s1600-h/Plakias+059.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230635908830985842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzpV9F_nI/AAAAAAAAAto/tko2_delAo4/s400/Plakias+059.jpg" border="0" /></a> Nico is messing,<br />Dave’s excessing,<br />Brenda counts the days but says it’s too depressing.<br />Áine’s reminiscing,<br />Emmet’s gone missing,<br />Too many Cokes have sent him to the toilet.<br />Look here Kate!<br />These carrots look great!<br />Adonis shoos a cat away,<br />Nico puts his hat away,<br />Maria goes this-a-way,<br />Kate goes that-a-way,<br />Dave and Áine chat away,<br />Peter wants his stomach to sit in a flatter way,<br />Emmet’s taunting ‘roaches,<br />Andreas approaches,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman trying on the brooches.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzZZSnsfI/AAAAAAAAAtg/8ZuahwMRXRU/s1600-h/Plakias+076.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230635634848674290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzZZSnsfI/AAAAAAAAAtg/8ZuahwMRXRU/s400/Plakias+076.jpg" border="0" /></a> Maria’s drinking juices,<br />Kate makes excuses,<br />Áine lists dead cats and many of their uses.<br />Dave’s telling fables,<br />Andreas moving tables,<br />The bottles look small so Emmet checks the labels,<br />Go on Kate!<br />More olives on the plate!<br />Maria is sleepy,<br />Frau Fred’s creepy,<br />Brenda’s eyes are weepy,<br />Dave explains the diff’rence ‘tween a wigwam and a tepee.<br />Emmet’s nose is runny,<br />Adonis thinks its funny,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman spending all my money.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzMQ80AwI/AAAAAAAAAtY/8Jte7GTh3xw/s1600-h/Plakias+051.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230635409271423746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzMQ80AwI/AAAAAAAAAtY/8Jte7GTh3xw/s400/Plakias+051.jpg" border="0" /></a> Nico’s throwing nuts about,<br />The girls shake their butts about,<br />The goose looks offended and humorously struts about,<br />The moon is waning,<br />Emmet is complaining,<br />Áine spots a cloud and says it might start raining,<br />Eat up Kate!<br />More carrots on the plate!<br />The waves keep rolling,<br />Adonis goes strolling,<br />Kate won’t eat despite Brenda’s cajoling,<br />Sunburn stings now,<br />Maria sings now,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman trying on the rings now.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzB77TYtI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/W9_VpzukXRs/s1600-h/Plakias+074.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230635231829254866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbzB77TYtI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/W9_VpzukXRs/s400/Plakias+074.jpg" border="0" /></a> Dave is re-ordering,<br />Peter’s camcordering,<br />Mon wants to know if we can afford a ring,<br />Adonis drinking water,<br />Dave’s on the porter,<br />Brenda’s trying to get an olive in her daughter.<br />Just one Kate!<br />Choose one from the plate!<br />Kate refuses,<br />Brenda excuses,<br />Nico and Emmet are comparing their bruises,<br />Áine watches,<br />Maria dances,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman lightening finances.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJby4kG8iRI/AAAAAAAAAtI/KhESO2hxXkM/s1600-h/Plakias+080.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230635070816815378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJby4kG8iRI/AAAAAAAAAtI/KhESO2hxXkM/s400/Plakias+080.jpg" border="0" /></a> Peter’s hunched stockily,<br />Nico shouts cockily,<br />Áine is extolling the virtues of broccoli,<br />Monica is sweating,<br />Brenda’s forgetting,<br />Dave checks his whistle and says it needs wetting,<br />Where is Kate?<br />These olives won’t wait!<br />Maria sings a stanza<br />Of Mario Lanza,<br />Emmet wants to know if we can play Bonanza.<br />Twenty dollars,<br />The carrot dangles,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman trying on the bangles.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbyuxjPYbI/AAAAAAAAAtA/R0Kvu1HEf5s/s1600-h/Plakias+081.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230634902626460082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJbyuxjPYbI/AAAAAAAAAtA/R0Kvu1HEf5s/s400/Plakias+081.jpg" border="0" /></a> The goose is getting playful,<br />Andreas has a tray full,<br />Dave can’t figure out why his pint won’t stay full,<br />From somewhere there’s an odour<br />Of Campari and Soda,<br />Kate throws the nuts the way that Nico showed ‘er.<br />Stop that Kate!<br />Leave some on the plate!<br />Mon wants a sweater,<br />Peter won’t let ‘er,<br />Emmet wants to know can he have some more Feta,<br />Brenda and her bra<br />Are locked in a crisis,<br />Mon’s in the Talisman checking out the prices.<br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-73450205596895501012008-08-01T14:21:00.001+01:002008-08-01T14:23:36.535+01:00Foreign departure lounge<div align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMOM8PI88I/AAAAAAAAArg/5oDB1iwMnoo/s1600-h/205512608_709dc3fc47.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229539207798125506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMOM8PI88I/AAAAAAAAArg/5oDB1iwMnoo/s400/205512608_709dc3fc47.jpg" border="0" /></a> Another stream of English? Greek? Swahili?<br />Everybody straining hard to hear.<br />We look across at Ray from Cabinteely.<br />He just shrugs and takes a sup of beer.<br /><br />The plane was due to leave at 7:20,<br />My watch says it is now 8:22.<br />Of Gaelic football tops, there still are plenty,<br />So if it’s gone, it’s left with just the crew.<br /><br />The monitor is grimy and quite dirty,<br />Our flight of course is nowhere to be seen.<br />The plane that left for Rome at 7:30<br />Still shows “Delayed till 7:17”<br /><br />There’s no sign of our plane outside the window,<br />We’re six but squashed in seats designed for three.<br />Someone throws away last Wednesday’s Indo,<br />Someone else is going for a pee.<br /><br />All around the travellers are sweating,<br />No-one really wanting to fly home.<br />My wife and I are earnestly regretting<br />We didn’t catch that bleedin’ flight to Rome.<br /><br />Half an hour, another stream of babble,<br />Ray gets up and nods toward the gate.<br />We all follow like a brainless rabble,<br />Thankful that we’re only two hours late.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-72223894254699801202008-08-01T14:15:00.005+01:002008-08-01T14:21:08.495+01:00The ascent of the Kakomouri headland<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMNhKvY26I/AAAAAAAAArY/TtQ7pzGaP7k/s1600-h/Plakias+075.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229538455777237922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMNhKvY26I/AAAAAAAAArY/TtQ7pzGaP7k/s400/Plakias+075.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>(an account of the daring and intrepid ascent of this previously unclimbed – except by other people – mountain overlooking Plakias bay)<br /></em><br />For a week I’d reclined<br />With not much on my mind<br />In the Ostraco beachside taverna.<br />And my plans to go hiking,<br />Once much to my liking,<br />Had been very much on the back burner.<br />But my conscience was roused<br />By the choice thus espoused<br />With a strength that conspired to floor me,<br />So I sucked on my lime<br />And avowed I would climb<br />The bloody great headland before me.<br /><br />So next morn, I awoke<br />With a post-Raki croak<br />And set out in my shorts and my sandals.<br />And though it was still night,<br />The moon’s bounteous light<br />Meant I’d no need for torches or candles.<br />Round the beach road I strolled<br />With my sweat running cold,<br />Hoping any stray dogs would ignore me,<br />Till I reached that great rock<br />When it came as a shock<br />The extent of the journey before me.<br /><br />It was huge, it was massive,<br />Aloof and impassive<br />And I felt an illegal usurper.<br />As I started to sweat<br />I began to regret<br />That I’d not thought to hire a Sherpa.<br />Along the cliff’s base<br />I redoubled my pace<br />As a sense of adventure swam o’er me.<br />With my guide-book in hand, I would conquer this land,<br />Despite all the dangers before me.<br /><br />To the cliff’s end I went<br />And began the ascent,<br />Still in the deep shade of the mountain.<br />A faint path up the scree<br />Led diagonally –<br />Fifty yards, eighty and countin’.<br />On the path a large goat<br />In a black woolly coat<br />Scampered off round a rock when he saw me,<br />And I envied his speed<br />As I viewed rock and weed<br />That adorned the slight pathway before me.<br /><br />At the top of this climb,<br />I sat down for a time<br />And gulped some large mouthfuls of water,<br />Which lightened the load<br />And conclusively showed<br />I was right not to hire a porter.<br />Then I turned to the left<br />And hopped gully and cleft<br />As ambition continued to draw me<br />Ever higher and higher,<br />As my heart filled with fire<br />And the sunlight grew stronger before me.<br /><br />At the end of this track,<br />I again doubled back<br />With another diagonal sortie.<br />And, as the sun baked,<br />How my knee muscles ached<br />And I wished I was not over forty.<br />Another sheer cliff,<br />And I wasn’t sure if<br />I was right ‘bout this pathway that bore me.<br />It was faint, indistinct<br />And I dubiously blinked<br />At the words on the page held before me.<br /><br />But I went with the book<br />Round each cranny and nook,<br />To the final ascent I was seeking.<br />As I skirted large boulders,<br />The bag hurt my shoulders<br />And my knees kept their incessant creaking.<br />Then a dip hove to view<br />Up above and I knew<br />That the gods could no longer ignore me.<br />No way would I plummet<br />So near to the summit<br />With such world-famous glory before me.<br /><br />Further upwards I rambled,<br />Occasionally scrambled<br />With the brown vegetation quite prickly.<br />My legs were all scraped,<br />Not a square inch escaped,<br />And the sweat down my neck became trickly.<br />When I got to the top<br />I decided to stop,<br />Cursing loud at the plants that did score me.<br />And I sat on a rock<br />At just seven o’clock<br />Gazing down at the view spread before me.<br /><br />Just one final slope!<br />Up I climbed, full of hope.<br />The “pathway” was now indiscernible.<br />I clambered o’er rocks,<br />Taking plenty of knocks,<br />Wondering hard if this route was returnable.<br />I scaled one last lip<br />And my heart gave a skip,<br />As grave doubts had continued to gnaw me.<br />I was there! I’d o’ercome it!<br />I’d got to the summit!<br />Oh great joy unconfined!<br />(Though disgusted to find<br />That a German had got there before me.)<br /><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMNTHFmm5I/AAAAAAAAArQ/L5jcFiYDNnU/s1600-h/Plakias+044.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229538214278503314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMNTHFmm5I/AAAAAAAAArQ/L5jcFiYDNnU/s400/Plakias+044.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div align="center"> </div></div><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-48692651333456540202008-08-01T14:09:00.003+01:002008-08-01T14:14:35.578+01:00Big wave<div align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMLn3oUouI/AAAAAAAAAq4/_K1xOo-MlLg/s1600-h/Not_Waving_But_Drowning.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229536371883156194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMLn3oUouI/AAAAAAAAAq4/_K1xOo-MlLg/s400/Not_Waving_But_Drowning.jpg" border="0" /></a> He went into the sea up to his oxters.<br />“Big wave!” his mother shouted from the shore.<br />He waved with all his might,<br />Then got carried out of sight<br />By the biggest wave that Plakias ever saw.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-37682897679634260072008-08-01T14:06:00.001+01:002008-08-01T14:09:48.764+01:00Thoughts of flying home<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMLAUlT2wI/AAAAAAAAAqw/hLMPKceuO0w/s1600-h/B737_eurocypria.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229535692460382978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMLAUlT2wI/AAAAAAAAAqw/hLMPKceuO0w/s400/B737_eurocypria.jpg" border="0" /></a> The thoughts of flying home again are killing me,<br />Another endless stretch of work and rain.<br />Every fibre of my soul is willing me<br />To take the brash decision to remain.<br />Deep down though, I know well it can’t be done,<br />Although the harsh realities are filling me<br />With despair that I can’t stay here in the sun,<br />However hard imagination’s grilling me.<br /><br />The thoughts of flying home again are killing me.<br />Blank depression’s all that has survived.<br />The prospect has been resolutely chilling me<br />Ever since the day that we arrived.<br />I feel the urge to pack a case and run.<br />Responsibilities, alas! are stilling me<br />And so I’ll merely stretch out in the sun.<br />The thoughts of flying home again are killing me<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-55537628984321965282008-08-01T14:03:00.002+01:002008-08-01T14:05:59.016+01:00Rethymnon lighthouse waltz<div align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMKDwzbggI/AAAAAAAAAqo/BvclorSyBGM/s1600-h/Plakias+058.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229534652063777282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMKDwzbggI/AAAAAAAAAqo/BvclorSyBGM/s400/Plakias+058.jpg" border="0" /></a> At the end of the pier,<br />Where few tourists go<br />In the mad Cretan heat,<br />O’er the waters so clear<br />That languidly flow<br />To bathe his tired feet,<br /><br />He stands tall and straight<br />With a big toothless grin<br />On his world-weary face,<br />Watching tourists and freight<br />Purring out, purring in,<br />Past his thick sturdy base.<br /><br />His old grey tin cap –<br />Does it nod to the bucks<br />In their bright fancy gear<br />That now hold the map<br />And the maritime books<br />On the opposite pier?<br /><br />Does his mind flicker back<br />To empirical times<br />When he stood proud and strong,<br />Shining forth in the black,<br />With his nautical chimes<br />Chanting loud the old song?<br /><br />In his mind, does he hear<br />The victorious crow<br />Of the large Turkish fleet?<br />At the end of the pier,<br />Where few tourists go<br />In the mad Cretan heat...<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-44487875660017065342008-08-01T14:01:00.001+01:002008-08-01T14:02:38.482+01:00Ravine<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMJVHREOCI/AAAAAAAAAqg/Vc3RjTYAVPU/s1600-h/Plakias+067.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229533850639808546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMJVHREOCI/AAAAAAAAAqg/Vc3RjTYAVPU/s400/Plakias+067.jpg" border="0" /></a> A ravine or a gorge or a gully?<br />The Cretans don’t seem to know which.<br />The difference admittedly’s woolly.<br />How do you describe a large ditch?<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-53769085668397227832008-08-01T13:56:00.002+01:002008-08-01T14:01:01.682+01:00Poolside brilliance<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMI6qG12VI/AAAAAAAAAqY/e8e0auRWrT8/s1600-h/0_04_jumper_sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229533396135696722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMI6qG12VI/AAAAAAAAAqY/e8e0auRWrT8/s400/0_04_jumper_sm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">With a leap and a bound,<br />He sprang off the ground<br />And dived in with joy unrestrained.<br />Universal acclaim!<br />It was only a shame<br />He’d not realised the pool had been drained.<br /> </div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-52435443034668110612008-08-01T13:55:00.002+01:002008-08-01T13:56:45.485+01:00Kate and the dragonfly<div align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMH8L5PBrI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/2kzOjedINpA/s1600-h/Plakias+031.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229532322873673394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMH8L5PBrI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/2kzOjedINpA/s400/Plakias+031.jpg" border="0" /></a> The serried mountain massif<br />Stood inscrutably impassive.<br />The sun was hot though afternoon was late.<br />Upon the lake, relaxing,<br />We did nothing that was taxing<br />Till a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />The size of a small sparrow,<br />It flew at her like an arrow,<br />And caused Miss Lawless to become irate.<br />All around her, it went buzzin’,<br />Likely calling for its cousin,<br />This huge dragonfly that buzzed around poor Kate.<br /><br />Was she being battered?<br />Well the evening calm was shattered<br />With yells and shrieks too awful to relate.<br />She was screaming out blue murder,<br />Even distant farmers heard ‘er<br />When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />Well the pedalo was rocking<br />It was tilting something shocking<br />As all her jigging distributed weight.<br />And Emmet had no wishes<br />To be swimming with the fishes<br />When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />The fish beneath the waters<br />Called out to their sons and daughters<br />“Dinner will be soon served on a plate!”<br />All the baby fish came tumbling,<br />Their little bellies rumbling,<br />When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />‘Twas like assault and battery<br />Committed in a cattery<br />Or a banshee shrieking loudly to its mate.<br />Far away in West Darjeeling<br />People wondered “What’s that squealing?”<br />When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />On the mountain, rocks came falling,<br />The destruction was appalling,<br />With towns submerged by limestone, shale and slate.<br />All the traffic was diverted<br />And the Red Cross was alerted<br />When a dragonfly went buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />In the White House, they suspected<br />That the decibels projected<br />Could only come from en’mies of the state.<br />The fighter planes were scrambled<br />As the Secret Service gambled<br />‘Twas no dragonfly just buzzing after Kate.<br /><br />And then suddenly, it vanished,<br />As by Royal Ordnance banished<br />And the anguished howls ceased to reverberate.<br />Once again great peace descended<br />On the lake so calm and splendid<br />On the day a dragonfly buzzed after Kate.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-47747141941656084842008-08-01T13:52:00.001+01:002008-08-01T13:54:52.598+01:00The short stubby finger syndrome<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMHgjwSn6I/AAAAAAAAAqI/ienK7mmlOW0/s1600-h/hand-soap.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229531848242274210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMHgjwSn6I/AAAAAAAAAqI/ienK7mmlOW0/s400/hand-soap.jpg" border="0" /></a> It’s the short, stubby finger syndrome<br />When your fingers grow chunky and fat.<br />In hot sunny climes,<br />It happens sometimes<br />That you can’t hold a pen<br />When you think of good rhymes,<br />And that, says the saying, is that.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-61988187346628248902008-08-01T13:49:00.001+01:002008-08-01T13:52:38.277+01:00The jewellery shops of Rethymnon<div align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMG-W_xk-I/AAAAAAAAAqA/suYBAllLOIE/s1600-h/Plakias+028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229531260702004194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJMG-W_xk-I/AAAAAAAAAqA/suYBAllLOIE/s400/Plakias+028.jpg" border="0" /></a> In Rethymnon in Northern Crete,<br />There’s jewellery shops on every street.<br />In fact I’d say each second shop<br />Would make the jewel-eyed shopper stop<br />And point at watches, brooches, rings<br />And other bright and shiny things.<br />Such is the amount, I’ve often thought<br />How the market can support<br />So many stores all selling bling.<br />But yet the singing tills all ring!<br />‘Tis clear to anyone who cares<br />To wander down her thoroughfares,<br />The town’s prosperity is fuelled<br />By all these shops so brightly jewelled.<br />Thus, borrowing a phrase of old,<br />The streets are truly paved with gold.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-64450715010628156412008-07-31T21:53:00.001+01:002008-07-31T22:00:42.816+01:00The Poolside Show<div align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIn3hUq0PI/AAAAAAAAAp4/SzLlSREa6zg/s1600-h/3153796-swimming_pool-Angeles_City.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229285952121917682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIn3hUq0PI/AAAAAAAAAp4/SzLlSREa6zg/s400/3153796-swimming_pool-Angeles_City.jpg" border="0" /></a> Across the pool, her boobs were flashing tersely,<br />Like something from an Alan Ayckbourn farce.<br />That was yesterday, but now conversely<br />Today we’ve had the pleasure of her arse.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-28647029993820281562008-07-31T21:51:00.001+01:002008-07-31T21:52:55.894+01:00The towel<div align="center"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJImDwNLkyI/AAAAAAAAApw/c9WgmZRz7Dg/s1600-h/Linda%2520Sunlounger.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229283963252216610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJImDwNLkyI/AAAAAAAAApw/c9WgmZRz7Dg/s400/Linda%2520Sunlounger.jpg" border="0" /></a> The towel sat on the lounger from the morning until night<br />But I was not quite brave enough to shift it.<br />I sat upon the poolside with my knuckles turning white,<br />Hoping for a sudden gust to lift it.<br /><br />But no-one came and claimed it and the lounger stayed unused.<br />The second day I eyed it with a scowl.<br />All throughout the morning I grew less and less amused,<br />Till after dinner, I threw in the towel.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-73830727774383923062008-07-31T21:49:00.001+01:002008-07-31T21:51:19.938+01:00The monastery at Preveli<div align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIlr9MUAXI/AAAAAAAAApo/CVwBCgb36d4/s1600-h/Plakias+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229283554421375346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIlr9MUAXI/AAAAAAAAApo/CVwBCgb36d4/s400/Plakias+005.jpg" border="0" /></a> At the monastery, fowl were a-plenty.<br />The air rang with cheeps, quacks and clucks.<br />Of the Catholic geese, there were twenty,<br />The remainder were Greek Ortha-ducks.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-19073044193504340262008-07-31T21:48:00.002+01:002008-07-31T21:49:54.428+01:00UFOs in Crete in July<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIlWkXbDeI/AAAAAAAAApg/2BUWB0rxrrY/s1600-h/Plakias+082.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229283186979835362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIlWkXbDeI/AAAAAAAAApg/2BUWB0rxrrY/s400/Plakias+082.jpg" border="0" /></a> Cylindrical and white,<br />Sure we got an awful fright,<br />When it suddenly swam o’er the mountain’s peak.<br />Then another came in view<br />In the sky so clear and blue<br />And a woman turned and gave a piercing shriek.<br /><br />All the faces turned on high<br />To those objects in the sky,<br />You could sense the helpless panic in the crowds.<br />Then up spoke an English gent<br />With an air of puzzlement<br />“D’ya know, old boy, I think they could be clouds.”<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-73543356849086931162008-07-31T21:46:00.001+01:002008-07-31T21:48:05.421+01:00Daves joke in verse form<div align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIk62AY1TI/AAAAAAAAApY/HrKdwZsccVQ/s1600-h/Plakias+076.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229282710678721842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIk62AY1TI/AAAAAAAAApY/HrKdwZsccVQ/s400/Plakias+076.jpg" border="0" /></a> If you should go<br />To the Ostraco,<br />You should not be surprised<br />If you get too jarred<br />And end up barred,<br />You may well be ostracised.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-803494557292673177.post-78372894968099950032008-07-31T21:44:00.001+01:002008-07-31T21:46:47.667+01:00The Parental Guidance Restaurant<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIkl7WaBmI/AAAAAAAAApQ/7aCn3Ua-_CY/s1600-h/Plakias+059.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229282351335999074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ok5p5uzcCaA/SJIkl7WaBmI/AAAAAAAAApQ/7aCn3Ua-_CY/s400/Plakias+059.jpg" border="0" /></a> You can get whate’er you want<br />At the Parental Guidance Restaurant.<br />The menu, folks, is quite extensive<br />And singularly inexpensive.<br />Mine host, a woman old and nice<br />Will offer up some sound advice.<br />Should your daughter, short and cute,<br />Ask that the curry be served sans fruit,<br />She’ll answer in a voice so sweet<br />That fruit is good for her to eat,<br />For, (speaking with a slight inflection,)<br />Fruit can bolster your complexion.<br />And when the meal is served and done<br />And your caffeine-bred nine-yeared son<br />Requests a coffee, not dessert,<br />She’ll stare as if profoundly hurt<br />And ask his age and tut aloud,<br />And suddenly it seems a cloud<br />Has settled o’er the dinner table.<br />As parents you will feel not able.<br />See what modern ways have done!<br />Is that the way to raise a son?<br />But she holds back with great forbearance,<br />Despite this pair of hopeless parents.<br /><br />Yes the menu’s writ in size twelve font<br />At the Parental Guidance Restaurant.<br /><br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0