some more fun

The lingerry drawer


Having had a little row about this wonder bra,

I went looking for more ling eerie and a bit of sca,

I’d have to go snooping when she wasn’t there,

If I was to have any chance of a rummage without fear,

So I’m off for the weekend she said with a shout,

Aha here’s my chance to see what this ling eerie is all about,

So off she went to her ladies dancing weekend away,

Leaving me at home alone to rummage for the day,

So with a quiet house and no one to disrupt my endeavour,

I opened one drawer with a hint of a shiver,

For no man would be caught dead inside a woman’s attire,

Unless he is a cross dresser she’d set him on fire,

So rummage I did for all of my sins,

The first thing I found were hats for Siamese twins,

Ahead I forged and on with my task,

I came across something labelled a Basque,

A nice little number but then it hit me with such pain,

What is she doing with a separatist from Spain?

Then there were stockings and tights and something like a belt,

Painful looking thing with straps and clips I felt,

Then what looked like a ball of string but I was wrong,

After an hour of untangling they turned out to be thongs,

And as I laid it all out there neatly on the bed,

I stood there mouth open scratching my head,

I thought of the times for women men had to wait,

It dawned on me why women are notoriously running late,

Before they ever decide on the colour of their dress,

They go through all their underwear trying to impress,

Then cover it all up with a blouse or a frock,

She feels so sexy smiling and your mans watching the clock,

Do I look nice she asks parading about the floor?

She may as well be dressed in a thong as you head for the door,

Tell me I look nice she will say play your part,

How can any man see sure you cover it up from the start,

All this from one drawer in one locker,

And eleven more to go oh what a shocker,

And right there in the middle a Basque separatist from Spain,

I gave up I’ll never go down her drawers ever again.

23.02.2012

History hill


He is often seen sat at the foot of hartigan’s hill,

Eyeing all who travel by coming and going still,

He recalls a time when there was no bus or car,

And he as a child he could run however far,

The hill in front meant nothing to him then,

He had run over it and back time and again,

While waiting for his mother who walked out from the town,

Carrying her shopping in bags weighed down,

And the long walk out the knocklasheen road,

It never dawned on him then to lighten her load,

Now and then a horse drawn cart would trot by,

Hoisting her lot saying drop those at the gate as you go by,

And then she’d continue to walk along the road praying,

Her eye ever watchful of her son playing,

Hoping for him there would be a better way in life,

An angel in the form of a fine precious wife,

And he moves from the foot of this memory filled hill,

He begins his walk yet half way up he sits still,

Here he recalls his youth and since passed dead friends,

Blessing himself he silently prays wishing he’d made amends,

For all the wrongs he might have done in the past,

As motor cars go by travelling way too fast,

Everything is too fast now no one takes the time,

To stop and chat spin a yarn or a line,

Age has a grip on him now and he knows well,

Won’t be too long now he’ll be in heaven or hell,

He likens himself to history a time of the past,

Walking this hill of memory not knowing if he will last,

And as he reaches the top and looks back with a frown,

Behind him is his life full of up’s and downs,

Memories all filled with sadness and joy,

A walk with his mother when he was but a boy,

Ahead of him his grandson waving seems strange,

Thinking some things in life will just never change,

His son and daughter in law stop in their nice shiny car,

He gets out to walk with them saying it isn’t that far,

You’re a good lad he says as they walk along the road,

I was just thinking of your grandmother and her heavy load,

And a time when over this hill we would run,

I wish I had been like you a better son.

24.02.2012