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His Master's Jodhpurs (Free verse) by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. Clenched about his Master's thighs
So snug, so tight, a handsome prize
Jodhpurs there, to rival any
Woven by a Spinning Jenny
In the heart of green Kilkenny
Alone by night, while household sleeps
Above the stairs, a servant creeps
For there to don the Jodhpurs proud
Pretending he were so endowed
Though knowing well 'twas not allowed
A butler he, though filled with malice
For drink he does, from silken chalice
And dressing up, his sinful prank
To dare outdo a butler's rank
Without the grace to take a spank
As full moon shines, above the moors
And down upon his Master's drawers
Where butler snatches at the handle
And in stupor, drops his candle
Then freezes to avoid the scandal
A sleeping Gent, one dare not stir
Lest his wrath thou wouldst incur
But stir he does, and with a roar
Spies butler sneaking t'ward the door
And Jodhpurs there, upon the floor
A mortal sin, a butler's worst
And ever shamed, and ever cursed
This servant, whipped with rod and cane
Does bleat and whimper, all in vain
As Master strikes him once again
His beating, though, has just begun
For where the Spinning Jenny spun
We watch him weaving Jodhpurs many
And earning not a single penny
In the heart of green Kilkenny
Up the ladder:
Idiot Box
Down the ladder:
Parades for cripples (Shit bag) by Thome Plumpe
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 7.04
Posted: January 21, 2004 5:38 PM PST; Last modified: January 21, 2004 5:38 PM PSTWeighted score: 7.0263467 Overall Rank: 52 Comments:
[10]
horus8 @ 24.126.116.54
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21-Jan-04/5:47 PM
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Reply
You are easilly the greatest poet alive, and I have no idea what jodhpurs are, which only adds to my first statement.
Reminds me of Poe, and like horus said, i don't even know what Jodhpurs are.
Do you think it reminded you of Poe because a basically identical scene happens in 'The Tell-Tale Heart'?
It's hardly "basically identical" now, is it?
Excellent! This reminds me very much of the work of Jeffrey Farnol.
CHAPTER XXV
IN WHICH THE READER SHALL FIND LITTLE TO DO WITH THE STORY, AND MAY, THEREFORE, SKIP Imagine the look of sheer terror on my stupid face as I opened my post this morning. I say 'this morning', when really it was more like 'late afternoon', having spent the night before eating the new Walker's Chicken Tikka Masala flavoured crisps, and having been woken, most improperly, at noon, by a bedder who does not fully comprehend her lowly place in this world. Thus roused, I whittled away the early hours of the afternoon drinking coca-cola, scoffing Sainsbury's Frosted Flakes, chuckling at Matthew's comment on 'Broken', and painfully lamenting the rather paltry number of posts my work is attracting of late. It was only because I had to return a DVD that was two days overdue that I eventually oozed out of my bedchamber and felt my way to the Porter's Lodge. There I found a pouch. However, it was not empty: it was quite, quite full. Therein, to my delight, a treasured text with such whimsical chapter titles as: CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH A HAT, THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER, and, best of all, HOW I TALKED WITH A MADMAN IN A WOOD BY MOONLIGHT. Truely a most exceptional find. Should you ever feel the need to have it back, I would gladly reluctantly return it. As Ever, Epsom Brown
What a lovely gift!!!!!!!1
You can't look at it.
A ha ha. You think you were the only -=Dark_Angel=- to receive a brimming pouch.
A ha ha, no my lad. I know full well you received a brimming pouch, and, which is more, I know what it was brimming with... 'tis hardly the delightful bounty you'd have us all think now, is it? In fact 'tis rumoured - in Gentlemanly circles, I might add - that the fruits of your beloved pouch are no longer as ripe as they once were. Some would say 'tish!', or 'fipsy!', to such a claim. But others wouldn't.
What would you say, old man?
Lovely. Like a ballad of yore. How gratifying to see the lower classes being kept in their rightful place, and in such spiffing rhyme too. Only in merrie Englande. What-ho.
Perfect. Put periods at the ends of the stanzas and a bow in its hair and send out into the street to the tune of a jig. Tomorrow it may drown itself in the Liffey, but tonight there's only tonight and infinite possibilities for love.
I meant to say it doesn't sound like Poe. Sounds like Burns and Joyce (of course) but better. Poe was too clumsy, even in the dark tarn of Auber poem which I can't remember the name of now. And I think Jodhpurs is a great touch and don't know enough about Briticisms to know if you made it up or not.
of course.
No idea what Jodhpurs are...but once I reached the second stanza the poem had my full attention straight through the end.
dead good.
matthew & James do you remeber a chap called david wilson from High Wycombe? I know him and he has just dumped my friend I want to spank the living Greg Dyke out of him.
I'm British, and therefore i naturally know what jodhpurs are, in fact i wear them frequently whilst shooting foxes etc... 10... (Toots on horn)... ;)
Seeing as many of you don't know what jodphurs are, allow me to explain. Typically ron by the landed gentry of the British Empire, these garments are tight so as to support the leg whilst riding. They are also textured like courdorauys so as to give friction and furthur maintain the support and therefore balance of the horserider. Some more extravagant types have rounded sections at the side of the thigh that stick out. No-one knows why this is, as it doesn't help with the riding seat at all, it is one of those mysteries, like Loch Ness Monster and poor people. Anyway, I must be off to my riding. I'm fully prepared to be tossed off by a frisky young Arab!!!
i love u
um.....okay then.......kind of .........odd.......i think (6)
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