‘Twas the age of grand adventure, of sailing ships and steam,
When radio and airplanes were a visionary’s dream;
When men were men and women swooned to hear their heroes tell
Of battles waged in far off lands and perils that befell.
For the distant empire beckoned, like a Siren’s song of old
With tales of martial glory, and streets that gleamed with gold;
And the Queen would pay a shilling, for better or for worse,
To each soldier that enlisted, like the subject of my verse.
 
They called him Michael Lafferty, from Dublin Town he came,
Living proof that humble origin’s no obstacle to fame.
His mother was a working girl, his father no one knew,
But that fact was never mentioned with Lafferty in view,
For his temper it was legend and his knuckles cut and scarred;
As a rough and tumble fighter, he was held in high regard.
While the few that earned his friendship were proud to sing his praise,
His enemies were quick to learn the error of their ways.
 
Now Lafferty forsook his home, the country of his birth;
The British Army took him to the far ends of the earth;
For Victoria was Empress, and Victoria was Queen
Of the greatest empire known to man, the greatest ever seen.
From Singapore to Swaziland, New Zealand to the Nile,
This little Windsor widow ruled in unassuming style;
And the redcoats took their rifles and their Gatling guns as well
And they civilised the natives or they sent them all to Hell.
 
The regiment sailed for India where Lafferty learnt his trade,
Parade ground drills in crippling heat, one hundred in the shade.
The officers had their bungalows and punkah wallahs too,
While the Tommies in the barrackrooms were lathered to a stew.
Then finally  he saw action and acquired the finer skills,
Shooting Afghans in the dusty plains and Pathans in the hills.
And he learnt the native lingo and their funny little ways,
A lesson that would serve him well when the land was set ablaze.
 
 For the sepoys, they grew restless, said they didn’t like the taste
Of the cartridges, and were they made with some defiling paste.
Now your Muslim don’t like pork fat, and your Hindu won’t touch beef,
And this small misunderstanding caused an awful lot of grief.
The soldiers who refused to fight were shuffled off in chains,
But rebellion spread like wildfire through the mountains and the plains.
The mutineers took Delhi, there was slaughter at Cawnpore,
Where the wells were choked with bodies and the Ganges ran with gore.
 
At Lucknow Lafferty was trapped within the compound wall;
For five long months they waited for the garrison to fall.
Five months of desperation, five months of grim defence,
Five months of valour told to youth a hundred years hence.
Five months of slow starvation, of shrapnel, shells and fear,
Till finally the joyous word, relief was drawing near.
But the rebels held the city in a vice-like grip of steel;
A lack of local knowledge meant attack had scant appeal.
 
Then gallantry was called for and Lafferty volunteered;
He would venture through the siege-lines, past the enemy so feared.
With blackened face and native garb he plunged into the night,
Facing death at every instant of his deeply risky flight.
Through the murky maze of alleyways and streets that dripped with gloom,
Our hero stole on stealthy feet, avoiding certain doom.
Of a sudden, rang a challenge, crying, “Halt!” and “Who goes there?”
Four English words, one English voice, and Lafferty was clear.
 
Then the Officer Commanding shook his head in some dismay
At this ragged apparition who was sent to save the day,
But with Lafferty to guide them, the column swiftly marched
To bring relief and bully beef to those so starved and parched.
They fought their way through rebel lines with Lafferty at their head,
And broke the siege asunder, these heroes dressed in red.
After months of bitter fighting, when order was restored,
A VC for Lucknow Lafferty was his justified reward.
 
From India to Africa, a continental shift,
Meant Lafferty was stationed next at a place called Rorke’s Drift,
Where colonial expansion would soon bear bitter fruit,
As the warlike Zulu nation were provoked into dispute.
Then despite quite clear instructions to avoid all such disasters,
The local Governor, Bartle Frere, ignored his distant masters;
And he sent an ultimatum, which he knew would be ignored;
With arrogance the redcoats crossed the Buffalo River Ford.
 
In their homeland of KwaZulu a great army was displayed;
The Zulu King led out his men, the impi were arrayed.
Thirty thousand warriors were itching for a fight;
With assegai and cowhide shields, they travelled fast and light;
And they caught the British napping, and they taught them that conceit
Was the surest route an army had of marching to defeat.
Then the lookouts at the mission saw the Zulu fighters swarm
And the garrison sought shelter from this savage, screaming storm.
 
For they rained down on the hospital and set the roof ablaze,
So that Lafferty and his comrades thought they’d seen their final days,
But they stood, a band of brothers, and they stemmed the raging tide,
Daring death to do his utmost versus plucky British pride.
Then the Zulus breached the ramparts, so they fought them hand to hand;
To the stockade they retreated, there to make their final stand.
While the enemy scrambled over the bodies of their slain,
The valiant contingent battled on through fear and pain.
 
As a storm tide spends its fury, crashing on a rocky shore,
So the Zulu onslaught weakened, and the fighting raged no more.
Before the sullen sunrise cast its beams upon the dead,
The savage hordes had vanished, taken to their heels and fled,
And the battered British heroes, in wonderment and awe,
Could scarce believe the carnage and the slaughter that they saw.
Now their names live on in legend, and their valour is a gift
To those who praise the men who fought, defending Rorke’s Drift.
 
From South Africa to Egypt our hero travelled next,
Then by camel train with Gordon to Sudan, a country vexed
By a growing Mahdist army with their strict Islamic creed
And a hatred for the British who had made their country bleed.
Now even Pasha Gordon, who in China rose to fame,
Who had dined with Kings and Presidents, made glorious his name,
Could see that isolation must surely lead to doom,
As the Mahdi and his followers surrounded old Khartoum.
 
But for Lafferty, our hero, came a joy he’d never known,
In battle undefeated, but by love quite overthrown.
Zalika was the gentle maid who stole a soldier’s heart;
As the siege grew ever stronger, they swore they’d never part.
Inside his chest a dove of peace grew wings to freely soar,
As Lafferty the warrior vowed he would fight no more.
And they sprinkled lotus blossoms in the waters of the Nile;
As their love is consummated, let us turn aside a while.
 
In far off England’s Downing street the P.M. stood alone,
Deaf to the country’s pleading and the urging from the throne.
Till at last Gladstone relented and he ordered the relief,
But alas, too late, too little, and the nation moaned in grief.
Two days before fresh troops arrived, the starving city fell,
For the Mahdi knew their movements and he planned his onslaught well;
And when Gordon’s head was carried to the victor of Khartoum,
Lafferty was hiding safe within Zalika’s room.
 
And the year that followed after was the best one of his life,
As Lafferty learned Arab ways from his lovely Arab wife;
But as storms will follow sunshine and sadness follows mirth,
His heart was rent in two. Zalika died while giving birth.
Our hero cursed remorseless fate and shook his fist at God,
Then he set out on a journey only desperate men have trod.
Across the vast Sahara ever t’ward the setting sun,
He rode, to leave the world behind, the world he meant to shun.
 
An oasis fringed by palm trees was where he lay his head,
And as he lay there musing on his love who now was dead,
Came a quiet, whispered counting, a monotonous refrain,
That drove him to distraction as it echoed in his brain.
“Will you stop that cursed counting?  I’m trying to get some sleep!”
When the quiet chant continued his rage burnt dark and deep.
Then a madness overtook him and his fury ran white hot,
He dragged his faithful servant out and killed him on the spot.
 
As the desert stars shone fiercely in the velvet desert sky,
Lafferty woke again from sleep with a sudden, savage cry.
The relentless voice was counting, like pebbles dropped on stone;
Who could it be that sing-song voice, that eerie dreadful drone?
In a flash the answer struck him, the camels were to blame;
As he gunned them down he shouted, “That should stop your little game!”
Then the gunfire echoes faded, while he stood there mute and shocked,
 By the night sky’s vastness taunted, by the silent sand-dunes mocked.
 
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... eight.... and nine.... and ten,”
Imagine just how Lafferty felt when the counting came again.
Tormented by the men he’d killed and the loss of his sweet wife,
He resolved in that bleak moment to end his wretched life.
His mind made up, a blissful peace engulfed him like a wave,
“One cigarette before I go will help me to be brave.”
And there upon the packet, in bold print it did announce,
“The finest leaf you’ll ever taste – the tobacco, that’s what counts!”
 
 

Author Notes

I am pleased to revive this rather lengthy but worthwhile piece. If you make it to the end you may be able to help me by advising whether I should change the ending which is based on a rather feeble joke my father used to tell. The shocking truth is that I wrote the whole thing just to get Lafferty out in the desert with camels and a comrade so that I could create the punchline. What do you think? Somewhat of an epic - thank you for making it this far! Please note that variations in the meter are deliberate. In a work this long, to have pefectly regular rhythm would be incredibly monotonous and would produce a sing-song effect. As far as possible I have kept historical accuracy for the three great battles referred to. Some dramatic and poetic licence has been used, so not too much nit-picking please. Here are links to further information. Indian Mutiny http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Rebellion_of_1857 Siege of Lucknow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Lucknow Zulu War http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Zulu_War Rorke's Drift http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Rorke%27s_Drift Siege of Khartoum http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Khartoum I have used a few words that may puzzle the average reader: punkah wallahs - Indian servants employed to manually operate a fan Tommies - low rank British soldiers Pathans - Indian hill tribe Sepoys - Indians serving in the native regiments of the British army Impi - regiments of Zulu warriors Assegai - short thrusting spear Historical Notes: It is a little unlikely that one soldier fought in all three of these battles, but it is possible. I am reminded of the lovable if somewhat despicable rogue Harry Flashman in the books by George MacDonald Fraser. 'Flashy' not only fought in these same three campaigns, but also on both sides in the American Civil War and more! Although the causes of the Indian Rebellion/Mutiny are complex, one flashpoint was the introduction by the British of a new type of cartridge sealed with tallow (animal fat). Because the loaders had to bite the end off the cartridges, this was deeply offensive to both Muslim and Hindu soldiers. At Lucknow, I have credited Lafferty with the valiant deeds of Thomas Henry Kavanagh, one of only five civilians to ever win a VC http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Henry_Kavanagh ... or more amusingly here at http://greatbritishnutters.blogspot.com/2008/02/lucknow-kavanagh-carry-on-civil-servant.html

Now there's some folk cain't take a joke;
Their faces just look blank
They'd rather croak than hear one spoke,
Or play a silly prank.

Take my friend, Jock; he can't unlock
A smidgen of a smirk.
Though you may mock, he's like a rock;
His smiler just don't work.

Just like a monk, Jock's fun-bone's shrunk;
He's never run amok.
Though he's no punk, he keeps a skunk;
He calls him 'In' for luck.

One grey day dank, Jock's at the bank;
He toils behind his desk;
When in bursts Frank, his hair all lank,
In costume quite grotesque.

He wore a mac and wig of black,
He had a fish-net mask.
A gunny-sack was on his back
To tote the cash he'd ask.

The tellers took a fleeting look;
They spied his shiny Glock
And slung their hook, their posts forsook,
Except me old mate, Jock.

See, Jock showed pluck, he had no truck
With bandits of this ilk.
"Your actions suck, you silly schmuck!"
He thought, then moved like silk.

Now Jock was slick, he pulled a trick,
He didn't stop to think.
With one smooth flick, he hurled In quick,
Before poor Frank could think.

This simple act showed what Frank lacked;
Capacity to duck.
Upon impact, it is a fact
That he was thunderstruck.

It's hard to fake the smell skunks make,
It sure can make you puke.
A putrid lake of pong opaque,
It felled Frank like a nuke.

So let's not knock my good friend, Jock;
Whoever would have thinked?
Oh what a shock, no more the rock,
He acts upon In-stinked.

Author Notes

amok is pronounced amuck Grammatical errors are deliberate to convey the language style of the narrator.

Chapter 17
Murphy's Bar

By kiwisteveh

O, precious wife, my only love, my sweetheart so sublime,
If it should please your heart, I crave a moment of your time.


O, husband mine, so sweet, so strong, the finest in the land,
My time is yours, as is my heart, your wish is my command.


Most truly said, my turtle-dove; how Providence is kind
To grant this humble soul of mine a treasure rare to find.


How may I please you, darling man, the apple of my eye?
Whate'er you seek I'll strive to find or in the seeking die.


'Tis Sunday afternoon, my pet; the game begins at three.
I plan to watch at Murphy's Bar, on his big-screen TV


To Murphy's Bar again, my dear, the third time there this week?
I trust high definition is the only thrill you seek.


O, Buttercup, what can you mean? Your words cut like a knife.
Suspicion's unattractive in the better vkind of wife.


You know full well of what I speak; that barmaid known as June.
She's bustin' out all over, and I know you love that tune.


O, Pretty Pumpkin, it's so sad to hear such jealous raving.
You surely know your gorgeous self's the only one I'm craving.


Your words ring false, it's sad to say. To your eternal shame,
As we made love last Tuesday night, you whimpered out her name.


A cry of ecstasy, perhaps, a moan of sheer delight.
“I swoon, I swoon,” that's what you heard, as your love gave me flight.


It must have been a short-lived cry, if ecstasy was in it.
As I recall, the whole affair took less than one brief minute.


Impugn my manhood, if you must, but what most makes me grieve
Is the foundless allegation that you I would deceive.


Munchausen couldn't lie like you, you slimy little toad.
In all my life I've never heard, of bulldust, such a load.


My Sweet, you wound me with such names, it is a baseless slander.
Such sauce will stick, you jealous cow, to goose as well as gander.


I have it from the horse's mouth, on good authority,
For while you flirt at Murphy's Bar, why, Murphy's here with me!


That gormless clod, that Fenian troll, that lout of little learning?
I see in love, as in fine ale, his taste is not discerning.


I need a man who satisfies, who makes me feel complete.
He's twice the man you ever were; I don't mean just his feet!


You harridan, you vicious hag, your morals run to scarlet.
Why, Murphy's welcome to your wiles, you sleazy, faithless harlot.


The pot may call the kettle black, but hark, is that a car?
Goodbye, my cuckold, don't wait up, I'm off to Murphy's Bar.
O, precious wife, my only love, my sweetheart so sublime,
If it should please your heart, I crave a moment of your time.

O, husband mine, so sweet, so strong, the finest in the land,
My time is yours, as is my heart, your wish is my command. 

Most truly said, my turtle-dove; how Providence is kind
To grant this humble person a soulmate so refined. 

How may I please you, darling man, the apple of my eye?
Whate'er you seek I'll strive to find or in the seeking die.

'Tis Sunday afternoon, my pet; the game begins at three.
I plan to watch at Murphy's Bar, on his big-screen TV

To Murphy's Bar again, my dear, the third time there this week?
I trust high definition is the only thrill you seek.

O, Buttercup, what can you mean? Your words cut like a knife.
Suspicion's unattractive in the better kind of wife.

You know full well of what I speak; that barmaid known as June.
She's bustin' out all over, and I know you love that tune.

O, Pretty Pumpkin, it's so sad to hear such jealous raving.
You surely know your gorgeous self's the only one I'm craving.

Your words ring false, it's sad to say. To your eternal shame,
As we made love last Tuesday night, you whimpered out her name.

A cry of ecstasy, perhaps, a moan of sheer delight.
“I swoon, I swoon,” that's what you heard, as your love gave me flight.

It must have been a short-lived cry, if ecstasy was in it.
As I recall, the whole affair took less than one brief minute.

Impugn my manhood, if you must, but what most makes me grieve
Is the foundless allegation that I would, my life, deceive.

Munchausen couldn't lie like you, you slimy little toad.
In all my life I've never heard, of bulldust, such a load.

My Sweet, you wound me with such names, it is a baseless slander.
Such sauce will stick, you jealous cow, to goose as well as gander.

I have it from the horse's mouth, on good authority,
For while you flirt at Murphy's Bar, why, Murphy's here with me!

That gormless clod, that Fenian troll, that lout of little learning?
I see in love, as in fine ale, his taste is not discerning.

I need a man who satisfies, who makes me feel complete.
He's twice the man you ever were; I don't mean just his feet!

You harridan, you vicious hag, your morals run to scarlet.
Why, Murphy's welcome to your wiles, you sleazy, faithless harlot.

The pot may call the kettle black, but hark, is that a car?
Goodbye, my cuckold, don't wait up, I'm off to Murphy's Bar.

Author Notes

The contest called for a rhyming conversation between husband and wife.

Chapter 18
The Old Man's Secret

By kiwisteveh

One hundred years, Old George achieved,
The fuss could barely be believed;
The cake, the party, quite a 'do',
A telegram from Lizzie, too.

In geriatric glow he basked,
"What is your secret?" he was asked.
"Without a word of lie or levity,
How did you manage such longevity?"

"Temperance," was his stern reply,
"I've spent my life completely dry.
I never gave a passing thought
To absinthe, ouzo, sherry, port."

Tequila, whisky, cognac, wine,
Have never stained these lips of mine.
No gin, no beer, no rum, no schnapps;
Not for one instant did I lapse!"

Just then there came a fearful din
As if the ceiling might cave in.
A shout of rage, an angry thump
Made all those there assembled jump.

"Oh, no!" cried George; his face showed pain,
"My bloody father's drunk again!"

Author Notes

This is a poetic version of a well-known joke. Lizzie = Queen Elizabeth. It is traditional in Commonwealth countries to receive a message from the Queen on achieving your centenary.

Chapter 19
Pardon My French

By kiwisteveh

As I was dining a la carte
Awaiting my entree,
A mademoiselle with joie de vivre
Showed her decollete.

"Cherie, I cried, "it's deja vu!
I've seen those breasts before.
Do you recall our rendezvous
When we struck up rapport?"

"That pas de deux's a faux pas past,"
She said with some ennui.
"A quick grope down the cul de sac,
A fast fait accompli."

"But now I'm nouveau riche," I quipped,
"A famous raconteur.
I'm avant-garde, a bon vivant,
I 'ave my own chauffeur.

My concierge's uniform's
The height of haute couture.
When I get pissed upon the piste
It's champagne, that's for sure.

For breakfast I have crepes suzettes,
For dinner creme brulee.
Will you attend my small soiree,
Repondez s'il vous plait.

Your skin is sweet cafe au lait,
And, oh, your derriere!
Cherchez la femme's my raison d'etre
There's no more laissez faire."

Money speaks - a cliche, but
It proved the coup de grace,
For as we smooched en route to home
She offered no impasse.

And now denouement to my tale,
At my place (or Chez Moi)
Where my fiancee waited
For risque menage a trois!

Author Notes

I know The Blue Pixel has just posted her lovely quatern which is based on the same idea of French words in English, but we did not plan this - it is sheer coincidence! I must apologise to speakers of both French and English for torturing their languages. Francophiles I know will shudder at some of my rhymes (although to most English ears they should be close in sound). I have also twisted the meaning of some of these expressions to suit my story. I am not going to explain any of these terms - they are all English after all, as you can prove by referring to any good dictionary! FanStory does not seem to permit the usage of accents which would have helped with recognition and pronunciation... Bon appetit!

Chapter 20
Pardon My Latin

By kiwisteveh

Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong sexual content.

A mental health day is a sine qua non
If your status quo needs improving upon.
So, brush up your Latinate phrases et cetera
As my alter ego makes you feel so much betterer!

************************

Mater and Pater were gone for the day
Carpe diem I thought, it is my time to play.
I called up my girlfriend; verbatim I cite,
"Don't be in absentia, I need you tonight."

"I've been working ad nauseam, I'm non compos mentis.
Please come and spend time in my loco parentis.
In vino veritas sounds rather wise
Bring wine then for truth; tempus fugit! (time flies!).

Some perfumed oils too may come in rather handy;
Full body massage's my modus operandi.
I promise today you'll be my magnum opus.
Bring honey, bring grapes and some wee pills to dope us.

Well my plan was ad hoc but we soon had a quorum
Our agenda could fill up the next Penthouse Forum.
Attempting to prove that delight's had in tandem
We tried our vice versa, quod erat demonstrandum.

We settled in situ, no-one could disrupt us;
The last thing we wanted coitus interruptus.
Much pleasure per capita, more if pro rata;
Such tricks should be listed as desiderata.

Festina lente, she said, being sneaky.
Too late, I'd already veni, vidi, vici!
"Mea culpa," I cried. "It's my fault, so ergo,
I offer my hand for a quick quid pro quo."

I soon had my mitts on a bona fide squirmer;
Such joy seldom seen while on our terra firma!
Per ardua ad astra, habeas corpus, what a time,
No alias, no alibi, no prima facie crime.

Now that may seem non sequitur, illogical per se;
De facto is, post coitem, I don't know what to say.
Re more events that glorious day, there's just silencium,
From Descartes to vox populi, "Copulo ergo sum!"

Author Notes

This is a companion piece to "Pardon My French" which you can find in my portfolio. Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum sonatur (Anything said in Latin sounds profound, although I may have disproved that here! Some help with the more unusual Latin words or phrases: sine qua non = something essential (literally 'without which, nothing) Carpe dien = seize the day (take your opportunity) verbatim = word for word non compos mentis = not in right mind i.e. mad in loco parentis = in place of a parent (used wrongly here as a joke!) in vino veritas - in wine there is truth magnum opus = great work ad hoc = for that specific purpose (sometimes implies 'rushed') quorum = number required for a meeting - in this case two! bona fide = genuine Festina Lente = Latin proverb 'Hurry slowly' non sequitur = illogical (literally 'it doesn't follow) terra firma = solid ground, the earth per se = in itself quod erat demonstrandum = QED, the thing that was to have been proved coitus interruptus - slightly unreliable birth control method, pulling out per capita = per person pro rata = proportionately desiderata = desirable things veni, vidi, vici = I came, I saw, I conquered per ardua ad astra - through hard work to the stars - six please mea culpa = my fault ergo = therefore quid pro quo = one favour in return for another silencium = silence vox populi = voice of the people, the word on the street copulo ergo sum = Descartes said "Cogito ergo sum" I think, therefore I am, except he said it in French! You'll have to work this one out for yourself!

Chapter 21
Grampus Saves the World

By kiwisteveh

Said the whale with palpitations
To his friends and his relations
"Take me to the tropics for to die,
Ere Saint Peter takes my number
And I close my eyes in slumber,
I would like to see a flying fish really fly."

"Once we had legs to walk with
And voices we could talk with;
The mighty mammoths trembled when we spoke,
But being such lazy lubbers
We lost them in our blubbers
And now our shame in seven seas we soak."

So the whale folk soon set forth
On their journey to the north
For they meant to grant the grampus his last wish.
Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters
Left behind the frigid waters
And set off to find that fabled airborne fish.

When the great cetacean army
Reached latitudes more balmy
The patriarch once more began to speak,
Though I feel I'm in a sauna
And there's unfamiliar fauna
I've failed to find the flying-fish I seek."

"I am feeling rather bitter
'Cos there is one other critter
Who I'm blaming for the failure of my search
He's the one who bleached the coral
With his chemicals immoral,
He's the one who left the oceans in the lurch."

"Now the climate's getting warmer
Than the curry known as korma
And the weather's either cyclones, floods or drought
I just don't understan' it
Why he's killing his own planet;
If he can't change, the world will end, no doubt."

"By Pluto, Mars and Venus,
Man's a very silly genus;
He'd destroy his home sweet home and ours as well.
If we don't find a solution
To this atmosphere pollution,
Then we're headed on the downward path to Hell!"

So the whale and dolphin kin-folk
Formed a league of fishy fin-folk;
Their Mission Statement simply 'Save the World!'
With the situation critical
Their answer was political;
An environmental banner they unfurled.

Now the pride of the cetaceans
Leads the great United Nations,
A million minions at his beck and call.
'THE WORLD HAS HALVED EMISSIONS!'
Scream the latest news editions,
And 'GRAMPUS IS THE ONE WHO SAVED US ALL!'

With the world saved from destruction
And no need for further ruction,
The mighty mammal slipped back to the sea,
Where he cruised the great Atlantic
On a tide of joy gigantic,
For at last the fishy folk were flying free.

Author Notes

There is no doubt which animal causes the most misery...

Chapter 22
Dead Duck

By kiwisteveh

A duck was Robert's favourite pet;
They paid a visit to the vet,
And, "I'm afraid," the good man said,
"Your duck's not poorly; he's quite dead!"

Bob cried, "No! It can't be so.
He swam and quacked one hour ago."
There must be something to be done,
Some other test that you could run."

The vet said that he had a minion
Who could give her esteemed opinion.
How Robert was amazed at that;
The colleague was a pussy-cat!

The feline doctor poked and purred
As she examined the 'sick' bird,
Then shook her head and gave a sigh;
No need to ask the reason why.

But Bob could still not be consoled,
Excessive grief had made him bold.
He wailed, "I really must be sure
That there's no hope of earthly cure."

So then the vet just trotted out
The one he said would leave no doubt,
And even stranger than before,
This expert was a labrador!

The dog soon saw he'd have no luck
At rousing the departed duck;
He gave his golden head a shake
Confirming there was no mistake.

And as poor Bob was grieving still,
He was presented with the bill.
"What's this?" cried Bob. "Don't be absurd!"
"Five hundred bucks for one dead bird!"

"I feel your pain," the vet replied,
"And though it hurts me deep inside,
My fee I waived, but then you bought
The CAT scan and the LAB Report!"

Author Notes

No animals were harmed in the writing of this piece of silliness...

Chapter 23
The Great Pyramid Race

By kiwisteveh

There's a rustling round the canefields, that are Far North Queensland's heart,
And the pubs are filling up at Gordonvale.
There's a sense of quiet excitement; something big's about to start
That will send the pulses racing without fail.
You see Gordonvale's so tiny, just a speck upon the map;
One blink and you will miss it as you drive;
But for just one day in August, the whole place gets in a flap
As the town and all its people come alive.

No, it's not a Guinness record or a grand Olympic bid,
And it's not because the circus is in town;
It's the race to win the title, 'King of Walsh's Pyramid';
To the fastest and the fittest goes the crown.
It was fifty years ago they say, two farmers made a bet;
They were bored by watching cane grow, so it goes.
The first to reach the summit and come down again, would get
A case of beer to cure him of his woes.

Now the Pyramid's a landmark, one that all the locals know;
Its distinctive summit reaches for the sky;
And it towers above the township and the canefields far below;
Geometry nine hundred metres high.
There are some blokes think it's man-made; they claim Moses lies inside,
While legend says that turkeys made the mound;
Or it could be E.T.'s cousins made for UFO's a guide;
Are there prophets, eggs or spaceships, to be found?

On the third weekend of August there's excitement in the park;
There is music, there are games and there are stalls;
For the kids, a Jumping Castle, and the fun goes on till dark,
While contestants live again the thrills and falls.
Energetic and athletic folk, from near and far, it seems,
Are intent on gaining glory up the hill,
For there's fame for him who conquers the 'pinnacle of dreams';
The acid test of courage, strength and will.

The ascent's an uphill scramble, 'cross the rocks and through the scrub,
While your weary legs are screaming, 'This must stop!'
And you're thinking that you'd rather be at the flamin' pub,
But you struggle on until you reach the top.
There's no time to take a breather, or appreciate the sights,
If you think the worst is over, think again.
Going down's a free-form free-fall, full of trips and slips and frights,
And your battered body's shrieking with the pain.

'They are coming! They are coming!' and a thrill runs through the crowd.
The cheering and the shouting all combine.
Be it favourite or outsider, the applause is long and loud,
As the leader makes his surge towards the line.
Now at last the pain is over and the winner tastes his fame;
Will he celebrate with laughter or a tear?
To the list of worthy winners, let us add a champion's name;
The race is over for another year.

Author Notes

This year's race will be held this Saturday, 20th August. Check it out at www.pyramidrace.com Aboriginal legend has it that the Pyramid is the nest of the Australian Bush Turkey, while its geometrical shape has given rise to other stories such as those mentioned in the poem.

Chapter 24
Mounting Evidence

By kiwisteveh

You say you fear I've been untrue,
but no one holds a candle to
yourself. You simply can't be beat....
     They can't compete.

You heard my secretary's got
a bust that's big, a bod that's hot
and acts like she's a bitch in heat,
     Miss Marguerite.

I never touched the girl I swear;
I don't know how her underwear
got in my car behind the seat....
     I did not cheat.

That message on my mobile phone
declaring she was all alone;
would I come by and rub her feet...
    was meant for Pete.

Now that receipt in black and white
revealing that we stayed the night
in Hilton's Honeymooners' Suite....
     That's counterfeit.

And Tom, that Private Eye you hired,
you know he really should be fired.
Those dodgy pics from eighty feet
     are incomplete.

You have a friend who claims she saw
us through a window in the raw.
Your friends, I have to say, my sweet,
     are indiscreet.

Those emails that you say you read
about the joys we found in bed,
the evidence is gone, petite,
     I hit delete.

And now you say you tracked us here,
but look, I am alone, my dear.
You see her butt beneath the sheet?
     Oh, damn! Defeat!

Chapter 25
Kayak Jack

By kiwisteveh

There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun,
According to Robert Service.
I'll tell you a tale that'll chill without fail;
'Twould make Bear Grylls grow nervous.

This chappy named Jack had a fancy kayak
And a yen for the sort of adventure
As you sit on your couch, you would prob'ly go, "Ouch!
He's suffering from 'stremest dementia."

He set out one day in a casual way
With a grin and the best walrus jerky,
Past the bergs and the floes till his nose nearly froze;
Survival already seemed murky.

Then like a bad joke, his paddle it broke.
Who'da thought it could happen to him?
Our 'venturous wonderer marooned on the tundra
Could see that his prospects were grim.

But Jack was no quitter, he didn't grow bitter,
He'd been in such tight spots before.
Since the weather was cool, he looked round for fuel;
To survive he'd need fire, that's for shore.

But the only firewood that would burn any good
Was the kayak he'd dragged from the water.
If he burned that wee boat he'd have no means to float
Off home to his sweet wife and daughter.

As the Northern Lights flashed all Jack's hopes were dashed;
Fate had him, there was no way to beat it.
Though hard luck was his, the tale's moral is,
"You can't have your kayak and heat it!"

Author Notes

Nobody specified prose only, hence my poetic effort. Please excuse the slightly inventive language in places and the imaginative rhyme - put it all down to poetic licence in the pursuit of humour. The first line of the poem is a steal from Robert Service's wonderful yarn 'The cremation of Sam Magee.' If you don't know it, do yourself a favour and see why I would like to write like him! Bear Grylls is the star of the TV show Man v Wild and frequently finds himself in tight spots like the hero of our little tale

Chapter 26
Christmas in the Mailbox

By kiwisteveh

Let's kick off this ode down an old country road
With a landscape bucolic in view,
Where a mailbox there showed near our humble abode
With a door just so slightly askew.

To an unbiased gaze, it had seen better days;
There were dents, there were bumps, there were scratches.
When the rising sun's rays set the morning ablaze,
You could see all the fix-ups and patches.

Yet despite imperfection, 'twas one bird's selection
As real estate prime in location.
A rag-tag collection of straw-based confection
Each morning caused loud exclamation.

Each time that we cleared it, the darn bird repaired it;
'Twas driving us all to distraction.
At last we despaired, "It's all yours we declared. It
May bring to us both satisfaction."

In this uneasy truce the wee birdy cut loose,
For she spent not a moment in resting.
You would think that a goose or perhaps a small moose
Had taken up letter-box nesting.

All the bills that were due and the newspaper too
Arriving by rural delivery
Were allowed to accrue (slightly stained it is true)
By Warren the mailman, all quivery.

"What have we permitted? The mail can't be fitted
Inside!" I then cried in anxiety.
"No love notes transmitted, no poems submitted;
This bird's cut us off from society!"

"Let's throw the thing out, we can do it no doubt,
It's only a duster with legs."
But alas, we'd struck out, for the bird had popped out
A half dozen shiny blue eggs.

Our anger departed, we're far too soft-hearted;
For the chicks still unborn, there's no danger.
By bird we're outsmarted; Christmas spirit has started;
This family's all safe in their 'manger'.

Author Notes

If you can't quite make out the right-hand photo, it shows hungry, squawking chicks inside the mailbox! Merry Christmas and best wishes to all FanStorians. See you all next year. Steve

Chapter 27
Fitting Torture

By kiwisteveh

There's one thing that can truly vex
about the lovely fairer sex:
they cannot pass a clothing shop
without a sudden reckless stop-
no brake or turn light, understand?
No slowing down or wave of hand.
"I'll just be one (or two, or five)
minutes." That's the kind of jive
they try to feed you, though you know
they'll prob'ly be an hour or so,
and what are you supposed to do
while she goes 'Um' and 'Ah' and 'Ooh'?
The boredom's grand, it's continental;
half an hour can drive you mental,
and then she grabs a pile of stuff
ten skirts, ten tops, is that enough
to try on in the fitting room?
I'd rather rest inside my tomb;
it's cruel, unfair, it's inhumane.
Outside I faithfully remain
while snarling dragon ladies glare
and wonder why I'm lurking there.
I know their thoughts, I read their minds,
"He wants to look at our behinds!"
"See how his evil eyelid flickers;
he wants to watch us in our knickers!"
SECURITY, DEPARTMENT THREE
A LOITERER IN THE LINGERIE!!
But wait, the worst is yet to come;
"How do I look?" and "Does my bum
look huge in this or vast, immense?"
Oh, come on now, I'm not that dense!
The only answer that's worth phrasing
is, "Oh, My God, you look amazing!"
"I'm not quite sure," she coos and then...
... back to the fitting room again!
The only thing that can console
is when I spot a kindred soul;
the glassy eye, the hangdog look,
the sense that fortune long forsook.
Together we commiserate
and plot revenge against each mate.
At last the torture session's ended.
Please God may it seem I've pretended
enjoyment of this shopping spree.
"My sweet, I pray, a word with thee;
Together with my new friend Rolf,
Tomorrow I'll be playing golf!"

Author Notes

I would normally break a poem this long up into bite-sized chunks, but this one demands to be read helter-skelter, quick as you can, all in one breath if you can possibly manage it. Enjoy...

Chapter 28
Cactus Jack and the Kid

By kiwisteveh

Come, list'ners, lend your ears, my story's strange,
Befitting those immortal bards of old
Whose words illuminate our lives and change
Them for the better. Let the tale be told...
A darker villain never rode the range
Than he whose deeds within these rhymes unfold;
  His beard, his garb, his heart all deepest black,
  That dev'lish desperado, Cactus Jack.

No laden stage-coach rattling 'cross the plain
But Jack would storm from ambush, guns a-thunder.
A wealthy ranch, a gold-dust bearing train,
Wherever there was wealth, Jack sought his plunder.
And bankers strove to keep their cash in vain;
With dynamite Jack blew their safes asunder.
  Seems Cassidy and James could not contest
  With Cactus Jack, the scourge of all the west.

Good times don't last forever, as you know,
And Cactus found his fortunes fading fast.
His friends all fled, finances running low,
The outlaw fell on desp'rate times at last.
On fickle fate he'd risk one final throw
For free and easy fare to riches vast.
  In braver days such foolery he'd scorn;
  Now Cactus Jack the kidnapper was born.

The prey he chose, a puny, tow-haired lad,
The son and heir to cattle baron, Jed,
Was safely bundled up, and to his Dad
A ransom note was left that simply read:
"There's twenty thousand dollars I need bad.
Now pay up quick or Tom will soon be dead."
  "It's easy money," chortled Cactus Jack,
  And grinning to himself untied the sack.

A whirling dervish burst from forth the bag,
"I want my Dad. Where are we? What is that?
Is that your horse? He's such a scrawny nag.
I want my Mom. You've squashed my brand new hat.
Is that your gun? Why do your holsters sag?
My Dad will save me; he'll just knock you flat!
  I'm hungry. What's for dinner.? Ring the bell.
  Are you a bad man? Bad men go to Hell."

And thus for days such torment Jack endured,
For morning, noon and night the youngster prattled.
A week - the ransom hadn't been procured;
His nerves were gone, his sanity was rattled.
At last he cried, "Of kidnapping I'm cured!
For never have I such a critter battled."
  He quickly penned a note, "Please take him back.
  I can't take this no more, Yours, Cactus Jack."

Author Notes

loosely based on a story by the master, O. Henry

Chapter 29
Apprenticeship

By kiwisteveh

 

It was death by misadventure, so the coroner would say,
Though the good folks down in Stanbridge never saw it quite that way.
"There are lessons to be learnt from this, but at what frightful cost.
In the end what really matter is a young man's life was lost.

                                     **************

Young Terrence Matthews, seventeen, on leaving Stanbridge High,
looked forward to his new career with bright and starry eye.
Though not a brilliant scholar, he was likable and keen
And could turn his hand to mending any engine or machine.

Now he'd never go to college and his grades were far from top,
But he'd gained a good apprenticeship at Murphy's Auto Shop,
Where he started keen as mustard on his first day out of school
And quickly learned that life was tough - beginners' golden rule.

The mechanics down at Murphy's were a cheerful oil-stained lot,
But for every new apprentice they would hatch a fiendish plot.
Seems every dirty, awkward job, young Terry got to do it-
He was bottom of the totem pole and very soon he knew it.

And then there were the pranks and japes, like finding left-hand wrenches
Or searching for some made-up tool: "Hey, Terry, fetch the tenches!"
At smoko Terry made the tea. They cursed him for his brewing:
"Too cold, too hot, no sugar. What the heck d'ya think you're doing?!"

And worst amongst the pranksters was this joker, Warren Bell.
He seemed to think his role in life was giving Terry hell.
While the others still teased Terry, they grew gradually less frightful,
Yet Warren's tricks turned nastier, more dangerous and spiteful.

A hammer whistled past his ear, he tripped upon the stairs,
A car reversed too sharply, with Terry unawares.
Now Terry grew quite nervous, since in each and every case
There was Warren standing gloating with a smirk upon his face.

                            *********************

Nobody knows for certain just what happened on that day;
How the four-wheel drive was toppled or why the jack gave way,
But the witnesses who saw it all agreed what happened next,
Though it left them white and shaken and a little bit perplexed,.

Seems the two young men were helpless as the car came crashing down,
But next day 'heroic action' was the talk of all the town,
For as Terry lay there frozen, quite paralysed by fear
Somehow Warren, with an effort, shoved the young apprentice clear.

Warren died in just a moment, though they lifted up the car
And they struggled twenty minutes giving pointless CPR,
Till the paramedics told them, "Time to stop now. It's too late.
No way you could have saved him - you've lost a damn good mate."

Now it doesn't really matter what the coroner might say,
For there's not a soul in Stanbridge doubts a hero died that day.
At the funeral, five days later, Terry stood beside the grave
And reflected on the actions of a workmate, true and brave.

Chapter 30
The Great Escaper Caper

By kiwisteveh

They're a pair of horned Houdinis,
You might even call them genies
And their appetite for mischief is immense.
One is Maya, one is Lucy
They believe that grass is juicy
When it's growing on the far side of the fence.

I'm the one who did the digging,
Built the fence with all its rigging,
More secure than Colditz Castle, so I thought.
They went under, over, round it;
Where a loophole lay they found it
And went munching on the things they didn't ought.

Like a magnet to their noses
Were the most expensive roses,
While the flower border never stood a chance.
Through the spinach, beets and rocket,
Adding health foods to their docket,
They continued on their free and merry dance.

Now the umpteenth sortie's ended
And once more the fence is mended,
There'll be peace now for a little while at least.
See them round the pen go trotting,
Now with beards together, plotting;
They are cooking up another breakout feast.

But this time I'll have them beaten;
Not another shrub gets eaten,
Not another Queen Elizabeth destroyed,
For I've called up my supplier,
Bought more coils of razor wire;
The perimeter has landmines all deployed.

And there's searchlights that will function
Set at every gate and junction,
With motion sensors, cameras and the like.
See their yellow eyes a-gleaming;
I won't fear their sneaky scheming -
Each plan defeated by pre-emptive strike.

Now I just can't help but wonder
If I made a silly blunder,
When I gave that goatish pair a vaulting horse;
And it's rather hard to follow
Why the ground here rings so hollow
And their bleating sounds like little bursts of Morse.

What's that Maya's got beside 'er?
Could it be a working glider?
And where did Lucy get that set of keys?
Raise the shields round all the flowers!
Snipers, quickly mount your towers -
And someone send for reinforcements, PLEASE....

Author Notes

There are a few references here to well-known WWII POW escape stories: The title of course refers to 'The Great Escape' made famous by book and film. Colditz Castle was a high security POW camp where repeat escapers were sent - one planned escape was by glider. The glider was actually built but the war ended before that ambitious project could take flight. The vaulting horse refers to a successful escape from Stalag Luft III (same prison as the Great Escape) where a wooden vaulting 'horse' was used to cover the entrance to the escape tunnel. Queen Elizabeth - a beautiful pink, scented rose - well, it was before the goats got to it! The photo shows Maya (left) and Lucy (trying to eat the teacher's pointer), both pointedly ignoring the important lesson on the blackboard. Yours truly has never previously displayed a picture on FanStory so I'm hoping this still meets the 'blind' contest requirements...

Chapter 31
fingery lickits

By kiwisteveh

Yumpin' Yehosophats! Yimminy Crickets!
Mammy be bakin' up fingery lickits.
Dere in de kitchen she's whippin' an' stirrin'
Dose sweet-smellin' mixtures is bubblin' an' whirrin'.
Sugary, buttery, chocolatey fluff
Wiv chopped nuts and cherries an' uvver great stuff.
Now free dozen eggs and a barrel of flour,
Den let it all brew for free quarters an hour.

We'll prob'ly need pow'r from de national grid
Cos we stoke up de stove til he's flippin' his lid.
An' jes' when it looks like de whole fing's explodin'
We open de door an' we caref'ly start loadin.
One tray for me pappy and one for me mam
Den one for Wee Willy an' fat Uncle Sam
A tray for de neighbours, a tray for de dog,
An' one for ol' Benjamin, sleeps in a log.
A pile for de preacher, a pack for de Queen,
An' a mess for de gypsies who live on de green.

Dat ol' oven's groanin', how long can he last?
Dere's twenny more trays an' we shove 'em in fast.
By now de whole neighbourhood's sniffin' an' slaverin'
Dey's getting' strong whiffs of aromas an' flavourin'
Norf-east by westerly, dat's where it's headin',
More pow'rful dan wildcats dat sweet smell is spreadin'.
Souf to Alaska an' Norf-east to Rome
Wherever dere's hungry folks sittin' at home.
De Pope in his palace, de Queen on 'er frone
Dem President mans wiv dems heads turned to stone;

Chinese an' Japanese more dan are listable
Are lickin' dems lips at the tang irresistible.
Huskies in harness an' cowboys in chaps,
Reindeer an' race-drivers countin' down laps;
Kangaroos, kiwis an' karma battalions,
Hippies wiv flowers an' peace sign medallions;
In fact de whole world and some ETs as well
Are drawn to de source of dat framjumptious smell.

An', meanwhile me mammy is whippin' up cream
Ten buckets she'll do wiv a good head of steam.
Twelve gallons of icin', a hogshead of jam,
Wiv brandy a snifter an' whisky a dram.
De cookin's near finished, my taste buds is droolin',
dey gush wiv a rush, to de floor where dey're poolin'
My heartbeat is poundin', all flimmity-flammity,
When oh what a gastro-catastro-calamity
Me mammy, more sprightly dan lady Godiva,
Slips into dat pond of unsightly saliva.

No wonder she's yellin', no wonder she's frownin',
It's apparent to all she's not wavin' but drownin'.
Now sadly de coastguard ain't nowhere in sight
No lifeguards come rushin' to help wiv 'er plight.
No CPR guru to thump and inflate 'er
No ambulance man with a defibrillator.
So wiv barely a whimper, this marvellous baker
'Ad popped 'er ol' clogs an' gone off to 'er maker.

An' much worse was to come, as king Alfred had learnt,
If yer don't watch yer cakes, den dey's apt to be burnt.
Dere rose a great pillar of smoke from de oven,
More black dan a posse of witches, a coven.
Den a flame flickered out like de tongue of a lizard,
A flurry of sparks, den a storm den a blizzard.
In a matter of minutes a gran' conflagration
'Ad swallered our 'ouse an' de pride of our nation.
Yes me mammy was gone wiv 'er cookbook collection,
No more jammy scones nor no pink-iced confections.
But the tragedy truly I jes' cannot kick it
Is to never again taste a fingery lickit.

Author Notes

Doan ast me wot dis langwidge is!

Chapter 32
Palais de Poop

By kiwisteveh

Lily and Milly and Chocolate and Alice,
The resident birds down at Cluckingham Palace
All scurried away as I hove into view
With my shovel and rake and my wheelbarrow too.

See, chickens are lovely, they're cute and they're gentle,
They never take time off, parental or dental,
But they do have a habit which gets to a chap -
They're prone to producing vast mountains of crap.

Oh, yes, it's that day when I clean out the coop,
The Gulag of guano, the Palais de Poop.
I'll be shovelling shit in the Dungeon of Dung,
More smelly and black than a coal-miner's lung.

So here I am wading through muck to my knees
While stooped at an angle of ninety degrees.
My nose is assaulted by pungent aroma -
I'm cramped, cracked and crazy and close to a coma.

One thought still sustains me, one concept revives:
My struggle brings succour to so many lives.
My beans all say thank you, my rhubarb salutes
As chooky-poo manna refreshes their roots.

Chillis, tomatoes and aubergines too
All thrive on this wonderful, life-giving goo.
A green thumb will tell you there's never a match
For chicken manure on your vegetable patch.

Chapter 34
Death of a Dream

By kiwisteveh

Times were hard and getting harder in our sleepy little town;
Luck had hit a rocky bottom - then had kept on drillin' down.
An' them that had an ounce of sense had packed their bags and fled,
But we, poor fools, like Murphy's mules, had stuck it out instead.

Us kids, we all wore hand-me-downs since Ginty's Mill had closed;
There were patches on our patches - that was normal, we supposed.
We had meat to eat on Sundays, but don't ask me what it were-
Though Monday's soup was greyish gloop of boiled-up bones and fur.

One day, way down by Big Bing's Bush, I met this strange galoot,
With spotless, shining city shoes and a fancy city suit.
"I say, young man," this geezer purred, "may I seek your assistance?
I'm in the lurch when on the search for wetas - each one's sixpence."
 
**********************

Dear readers, please forgive me if I spend a while digressin'
For it could be that you missed, one day, that Nature Studies lesson.
A bug that's most misunderstood, the common garden weta,
Is seldom met by those who get a latte with their feta.

If you're creepy-crawly-phobic, then I guess you'd run a mile,
Cos there's somethin' quite alarmin' 'bout a weta's friendly smile.
See, he's big and brown and scaly like a cancerous carbuncle-
All spines and legs, Ma Nature's dregs, a roach's nightmare uncle.

But he's really rather lovely, he won't nip you if you're gentle,
Just don't drop one down Suzy's front, she's liable to go mental!
He's not noted for destruction or malicious interference;
Like snail and slug. this ugly bug's maligned for his appearance.

 *********************

Turns out this city-slicker sort was somethin' scientific
Who thought inspectin' insects was a pastime quite terrific.
I shook his hand, I sealed the deal, inside my brain was buzzin'-
Me arithmetic I'd worked out quick - six shillings for a dozen.

My head it whirled with dreams of wealth, I'd be my fam'ly's saviour;
I'd be lauded and applauded for exemplary behaviour.
Before his back was turned I'd found the first of my collection
Without a thought that what I caught was headin' for dissection.

Through gulleys full of tea-tree, up hill, down dale, I plodded.
I peered and prised and poked and pried; each totara stump I prodded.
One dozen wetas in one hour, one dozen hours per day;
I'd plant my feet on Easy Street when I got my first week's pay.

Still my head was full of numbers, they was whizzin' round and round-
Twelve hundred wetas, more or less - t'was close to thirty pound!
We'd eat roast beef three times a week, there'd be new clothes for all-
Can't be denied, that kind of pride is headin' for a fall.

I'd made a weta prison out of plywood from the shed
And I kept those critters captive in a box beneath my bed.
There'd be pleasure for the buyer and a treasure for the seller-
Next day the Prof would cart them off and I'd be Rockefeller.

Was it carelessness at lock-up time or just a twist of fate?
At dawn a thousand wetas simply burst out from their crate.
Angry, hungry, out they marched, a well-drilled insect army;
By instinct urged, onwards they surged, a terrible tsunami.

Six thousand feet a-scuttlin' swiftly jolted me awake
As a tragedy unfolded and my heart began to break;
There were thirty in the pantry, there were fifty in the sink,
A hundred more hopped out the door before I'd time to think.

The dog slunk frightened from his bed with weird, unearthly wail,
A weta tangled in each ear and five more on his tail.
My sister Suzy started screaming, waking brother Davy
Who thundered out and mashed about creating weta gravy

Now Dad was in the 'Reading Room' - what we called his long retreat-
When six big wetas scrambled out from underneath the seat.
Well, his screamin' woke the echoes and they fiercely answered back-
A wily one had sought to run, for refuge, up a crack.

There are wetas that are runners, there are wetas that are stickers;
Seems several of the latter sort had stuck on Mother's knickers.
Now, I love my parents dearly, they're not prone to acts aggressive,
But what came next left me perplexed and bordered on obsessive,

For my mother took a frying pan, my father took a spade
An' they whomped on ev'ry weta there that wriggled, breathed or prayed.
Now my buttocks still are stingin' and my backside's fiery red;
When they couldn't get a weta then they whaled on me instead.

In the midst of all the ruckus, as I shuddered, weak and shivery,
My friendly vivisectionist rolled up to take delivery.
There was not a living weta to be found for miles around'
My toil and pain had been in vain - farewell my thirty pound!

There I stood amongst the carnage and my lip began to twitch;
How I mourned my friends the wetas who'd been goin' to make me rich.
Oh, they say a loving family's the only thing that matters,
But it's tragic when the magic of a dream is torn to tatters

 

Author Notes

Mistakes in grammar and the dropped 'g' at the end of words is a deliberate indication of the colloquial speech of my young narrator. The weta is a large, flightless insect, endemic to New Zealand. There are a number of species including the giant weta and the tusked weta, but the one described here is the tree weta. They resemble a large grasshopper, but the back legs are greatly enlarged and spiny. They live in holes in trees. Tea-tree (also known by its Maori name manuka)is a native New Zealand tree which quickly re-populates cleared land. Totara (properly pronounced as three syllables toe-ta-ra but here I have used the common pronunciation in two syllable toe-tra) is another native tree. Both species provide ideal habitats for tree wetas. Very loosely based on a true story....

Chapter 35
Redemption

By kiwisteveh

To the campfire came a stranger
Though he never said a word,
Still he wore the cloak of danger
Like a predatory bird.

I remember night was falling
And a storm was drawing near
When this mystery man came calling,
Filled us all with shades of fear.

Tall and gloomy pines surrounding
Cast cruel shadows over all
Setting fearful hearts a-pounding;
Silent snow fell like a pall.

Then we hurried to our shelter,
Just a lean-to, nothing more,
While snow-flakes helter-skelter
Doused the fire's friendly roar.

We, the aimless and the nameless,
Fleeing fortune's random spite,
Some quite blameless, others shameless,
Huddled up against the night.

Bitter wind began a howling,
Made a soul feel ill at ease,
Seemed a beast from Hell was prowling,
Slinking unseen 'mongst the trees.

Of a sudden, lightning crashing
Lit the woods with ghostly flare
Then I saw my doom go flashing
'Cross the stranger's shadowed stare.

In the hooded eyes, a yearning
Such a sadness, deep and dark,
And a torment fiercely burning
Glittered there, a sullen spark.

Now there stirred a memory haunting
From the bleakness of my past
And the grim one's wordless taunting
Promised reckoning at last.

Like a jerky film-reel blinking
On a silent, dusty screen
I re-lived my hell of drinking
And that final bloody scene.

Two small children and their mother
Lay there dying in the street;
All the blame passed to another;
How he paid for my deceit!

Through the years I'd fled that terror
With my guilt in grim pursuit,
Paying for that grievous error -
Three torn bodies lying mute.

Then the heavens roared their thunder
And the lightning's savage cut
Carved a mighty trunk asunder;
Sent it toppling t'wards our hut.

To my mates I cried a warning,
Shoved them clear from certain death,
Knew they'd make it safe to morning,
Though it be with my last breath.

'Cross my chest the tree fell, crushing,
And the pain surged in a flood.
Next the dark wolf, death, came rushing
Through the snow stained with my blood.

Then the stranger came to hold me;
Now his face glowed like the sun.
Oh so gently then he told me,
"Welcome home again, my son."

Chapter 36
Me and Spiggo-Thingo

By kiwisteveh

A free heart check, that's what it said, that letter in the post;
Now, I'm a bloke who does enjoy a freebie more than most.
The missus seemed to think it wise, I'm sure she wasn't nagging,
Just gently stating point of view with frequent finger-wagging.

If there's one thing I've learnt in life, unless the body's failing,
It's wise to keep away from people likely to be ailing.
You may say I'm an optimist, you may say I'm a cynic,
I had to get, from my sweet pet, directions to the clinic.

I'm sure that doctors' rooms are scrubbed, they're pristine and they're gleaming,
But then they fill them up with folk whose orifices streaming
Show measles, mumps and whooping cough; they've fever, flu and ague
With scurvy, boils and pestilence and other ills that plague you.

There's petulance and flatulence and verbal diarrhoea;
There's ADD and STD. TB and gonorrhoea.
Into this sneezing, wheezing horde, with fear and trepidation,
I ventured timidly and sat amongst the congregation.

I took a seat with terror for I mingled with bacteria;
There on my left sat chicken pox and on my right diphtheria;
Across the room lurked cholera, behind me lay malaria,
Oh what relief, my stay was brief within this lethal area.

At first the nurse was nice as pie; she smiled, she laughed, she joked,
And all the while with expert eye she prodded, pried and poked.
My weight, my height, my heart, my sight, my family history too;
Each box was checked to sweet effect, she said, "We're almost through."

And then she pulled this gadget out, a thing of steely glitter;
She bound one end around my arm and then fired up the critter.
While Spiggo-nano-saurus gave my arm a thorough mauling,
The nurse sat listening to the news, it must have been enthralling.

You could tell the thing was broken by the way she paused and frowned,
Then shook her head and tapped the glass and twirled it round and round.
"Let's try that one more time," she said and pressed the starting trigger;
The monster grabbed my arm again with 'strordinary vigour.

Once more she listened with intent and what she heard, it shocked 'er.
"Wait here," she said. "Don't move an inch, I'll run and fetch the doctor."
The good man came with soothing words to ease my apprehension,
"Old chap, I'd say that what you've got's a spot of hypertension."

"Our Spiggo-thingo reckons that you've cracked a double-ton.
If all our batsmen scored like you, we'd show those Aussies fun!
I have a pill will cure your ills; just take one every day.
I guarantee that your BP will soon be A-Okay!"

"Look here," I cried, "I came today, a happy, healthy man;
I sat there in your Hall of Horrors; p'raps that was your plan.
Out there's a bloke whose gut's as big as Mikey's Monster Marrow.
I don't know how he fetched it here unless he used a barrow."

And over in the corner, that old dear so still and gray -
She's far from well and by the smell, she's maybe passed away.
I've risked my life just coming here midst bugs of all descriptions;
The pall of doom within that room has given me conniptions.

I'm off back home to take a bath in water disinfected
To kill the germs and bugs and worms that I have here collected.
I'll take your pill, I swear I will, and thanks for your assistance,
But from henceforth both south and north, I'm going to keep my distance!"
 

Author Notes

www.poetforhire.co.nz All true, I swear.... Well, alright, maybe I exaggerate a little.... Oh, OK, the first line is fact and the rest is pure invention. Spiggo = Sphygmomanometer - try getting that into an iambic meter! The reference to scoring a double ton (200) is from Cricket where a century is a great achievement and a double century or double ton is rare indeed. Australia is New Zealand's traditional foe - alas, they are almost invariably better than us. If you are English, I have tried hard not to mention the Ashes - oops! Sorry, I did it. :o) Hypertension or high blood pressure is not really a joking matter. I really am the healthiest person I know and have not been near a doctor for more than five years. My blood pressure was 210/110 - the only double century I'm ever likely to score and that made me a prime candidate for stroke or heart attack. I have been on medication for a few weeks now and my BP is back within normal range, although I do not like taking a pill every day. Hypertension is sometimes called the silent killer because it is often symptomless, as with me. I guess the moral is that it is wise to have a check-up from time to time even if you are feeling well.... Imperfections in grammar and usage are prob'ly intentional.

Chapter 37
Sophie and Andy

By kiwisteveh

Upon the bridge sweet Sophie stands,
She clasps the rail with trembling hands,
For, walking down the road, she spies
Young Andy Booth, whose twinkling eyes
Have snared her heart in Physics classes,
Where she sits shyly wearing glasses.

Swiftly Sophie calculates
Time and motion, distance, rates.
She'll time her jump, he'll see her strife
And run to give the kiss of life.
One eye upon the clock she keeps;
The time's precise; she turns and leaps.

The sight makes Andy gasp and stop;
He sees the rag-doll figure drop.
He runs to help, by terror fanned;
The ruse is working as she'd planned.

But Fate steps in, these plans he wrecks;
If only she had worn her specs,
She would have chosen not to fly;
The river bed is parched and dry.
On piles of rocks and dried up mud
She lands with a resounding thud.

As Andy holds the dying girl,
His teen emotions all a-whirl,
He whispers words he's longed to shout,
"I was on my way to ask you out."

Author Notes

In New Zealand a company called Specsavers offers optician services. Their humorous ads depict people getting into weird and wonderful situations because of their poor eyesight, with the slogan, 'Should have gone to Specsavers.' Maybe I should send this to them.... I could have used their slogan as a title, but I didn't want to give the game away too soon.

Chapter 38
Philosophy Jones

By kiwisteveh

When a cold wind strums through the city slums
                                with winter's frigid fingers,
      All the homeless folk, the broken and broke,
              feel the pinch where his iciness lingers.

           There are some who fall neath the wintry pall,
                                      their earthly struggles done,
But for those who'd fight 'gainst the season's blight
                                    why the battle has just begun.

Now one of this tribe that my scribblings describe
                                     and a man of slender means,
              Was Philosophy Jones, just a bag of bones
                        from the world of the In-Betweens.

But Philosophy knew of a gambit or two
                    for surviving on the street
      He was not averse to lifting a purse
   just to make his stretched ends meet.

 When the cold winds howled and the thunder growled
                                      then he'd hunt for a cosy bed,
                     With a meal thrown in, be it thick or thin,
                                     he'd consider himself well fed.

Now a favourite trick when the snow fell thick
                          and a ruse that seldom failed,
              Was to get run in for some trivial sin
                 so the county would have him jailed.

          Then on Christmas Day, on a bunk he'd lay
                                    in a cell all snug and warm;
Though he loved to roam, 'twas his second home
                                and a haven from the storm.

       Let us watch him now, for my lines allow
                            that we follow his career -
The lady all shaken, the purse that is taken,
                         the policeman standing near.

     Oh, the shouts and cries, then the tumult dies,
                               Philosophy's caught with ease.
There his victim stands with his fate in her hands;
                                is she deaf to his mute pleas?

  For the words that fell from her lips did tell
                                   of a soul with sympathy,
"Oh, it's Christmas time. 'Twas a minor crime;
                          Let us set the poor man free."

Through the night it went, though his sole intent
                                was to get himself arrested,
                 Philosophy found that on stony ground
                                  his seed had been invested.

    Till at last he stood in a neighbourhood
                    near a church of humble size,
And a Christmas choir set his heart afire
               and the tears fell from his eyes.

     "What a fool I've been, 'tis the life serene
                               I'll be seeking after this."
To his knees he fell where he prayed right well
                    and his heart was filled with bliss.

Then his soul shone pure and his path was sure;
                       he would fill his life with prayer;
            But a voice rang out with a steely shout,
                            "Philosophy Jones, I declare!"

"I've been looking for you; there's a warrant or two
                                and a judge who knows you well.
             "'Fore the night is through, I'm telling you,
                               you'll be tucked up in your cell!"

 

Author Notes

Of course all the best stories have already been written. I have loosely based this on a plot from the unsung genius O. Henry. I've forgotten the title he gave to his tale, but if you want to find it, all four hundred of his wonderful stories are available on line - you'll just have to trawl through. I can guarantee a barrelful of laughs and a bucketful of tears along the way.

One of thousands of stories, poems and books available online at FanStory.com You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author!

© Copyright 2015 kiwisteveh All rights reserved. kiwisteveh has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement