Life isn’t always a terribly fun place

When you’re a lap behind in the human race

The paucity of your life’s work you can clearly adduce

If monkeys with typewriters could reproduce

Whatever it was you thought you’d created

Only to find its been misappropriated

By a simian secretarial typing pool

Leaving you feeling like a fool

As the best you can do to stand out from the crowd

Is produce something of which an ape would be proud.

As the storm clouds encircle you

And people say “you look miserable, you really do”

It’s not always easy to explain

That you fear whether you will remain

Capable of parenting like others can.

Playing games, Dad the superman.

But never, ever, ever give up

There’s many a slip tween the lip and the cup

And I’m not done yet so let’s be clear

I’ll keep moving forward, crush the fear

Crush and squeeze it way down deep

Where the monster lies asleep

So onwards, upwards and if the inevitable darkness descends

At least the monkeys’ typing ends

When Mrs Donovan knocked on my door

I admit I expected a little more

Than the offensive tirade she let fly

Most of which passed me by

The genesis of which I was aghast to learn

Related to a serious looking carpet burn

Which spanned the area above her eyes

Resulting in a constant look of surprise

Where her eyebrows used to be

Was nothing and it seemed to me

That she appeared startled by an event

Or so my skewed logic went

As if someone had quietly crept

Up behind her and then leapt

Out in front of the old bird

But what she told me seemed absurd:

she reckoned she had been minding her own

When someone called her on the phone

Which she answered with an abrupt “hello”

But suddenly she really really had to go

Her stomach did not feel great

Presumably something bad she ate

So she rushed directly to the loo

And after she felt better she wondered who

Had called her before she rushed away

And what is was they wanted to say

By this point she had done a courtesy flush

But remained in situ, no need to rush

And as Mrs Donovan lived alone

The toilet door was open and she could see the phone

So she waddled across to wear it lay

Pants round ankles she returned with it to the bidet

The voice said “I’m from the water board

There’s a build up of pressure which is untoward

The pressurised water needs somewhere to go

So we’re warning residents there’s a risk it may blow.”

“When is this likely to occur” Mrs Donovan enquired

And at that very moment she was fired

Like a rocket out of the WC

The pressure had built up and then was free

It shot Mrs Donovan out of the smallest room

Like a witch missing her broom

And onto the carpet face first

A victim of the water burst

And as she told me about this event

And how that she was sent

Onto the carpet with tremendous power

It dawned on me she looked like she’d had a shower

She was absolutely dripping wet

And from the way her jaw was set

Now was not the time to howl

So I invited her in and gave her a towel

But somehow she actually believed

I was the one who’d got her peeved

By some unspecified evil act

An allegation not supported by fact

Although I had done some DIY plumbing

Resulting in a constant humming

Whenever my toilet was flushed

Which may have result in Mrs Donovan being ambushed

As she sat on a pressure cooker

Which very rapidly took her

On an unscheduled flight

Resulting in her looking quite a sight

Should I come clean and reveal what occurred?

No way, that’s absurd

It’s bad enough Mrs Donovan accusing me

But if she had a confession the end would be

Imminent.

The knight sat on his horse and sighed

“Come out foul beast, you cannot hide

In your lair. So come and fight

If you have the appetite?”

From the cave there came a snort

“I say old chap” came the retort

“Why are you bothering me?

I’m a peaceful soul, can’t you see?”

The knight was suitably unimpressed

It had taken him ages to get dressed.

His suit of armour was a pain

And he didn’t fancy taking it off again.

His horse was starting to attract flies

And sweat was getting in his eyes.

“I say, you callow beast, come and fight.”

The knight was sweating, quite a sight.

“There’s no need to be rude” the dragon said.

“You’re the one whose face is all red.

“Let’s agree” said the dragon in a conciliatory tone

“That we resolve this by paper, scissors, stone?”

The knight sat and thought this through.

His options were decidedly few.

If the dragon wouldn’t come out

All he could do was hang about.

Which he didn’t want to do.

He had a dental appointment at half past two.

The knight looked down at his feet and sighed again.

His feet were a twelve, his armour a size ten.

“Oh bugger it” he muttered under his breath.

“If you’re not willing to fight to the death,

Rock, paper, scissors will have to do.”

Then the dragon popped out, right on cue.

It was decidedly smaller than the knight had thought.

The teenie, tiny, shrimpy sort.

“Bloody hell” the knight expleted

“There’s not much chance of me being defeated.

In the normal mortal hand to hand.”

“Well you agreed and the agreement stands”

Replied the midget dragon to the knight.

“But I came here for a proper fight.”

“Well if we keep on arguing we’ll be here all day.”

The knight at this point considered walking away.

“Oh alright” said the knight, clearly embarrassed.

He was starting to feel increasingly harassed.

And from such humble beginnings the legend grew

Of St George and the dragon he allegedly slew

Not be sword and shield and lance

But by a silly game of chance

And of course he didn’t slay

The tiny dragon, that or any other day.

So be careful if into a little cave you climb

And hear a tiny voice saying “Oi, that’s mine.”