Free verse № 79932
His Master's Jodhpurs
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
20 comments
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 would you say, old man?
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.
-mega
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