Breakfast at Tiffany's
I'd to stay at Tiffany Dungworth's house
for a couple of weeks last year
-she kept unusual pets: a louse
and a virus that causes diarrhoea.
Me Mum h'd gone off to Stoke-on-Trent
to console her friend, Vera Sproat
who'd discovered her husband-
without her consent-
wearin' her smalls and furcoat,
at which he took Umbrage
their two-year-old setter
and eloped with a local M.P.
He nicked all her undies,
left an intricate letter
explainin' why he'd not need his tea.
Every mornin' Tiff's Mum,
with her hairpiece askew
and two inches of ash on her fag,
would minister a miscellany
of groat-based goo
that induced me thorax to gag.
Each mornin' I'd eye this gastronomic crime
with a sense of due caution and dread
-and would've put this lugubrious,
to a far better use instead:
like makin' good our antique chaise longue
that Beryl Glazer dismantled with ease
when she took an unexpected dive, headlong
and the skin off her fat hairy knees.
It could well have been used
for patchin' the hole
in the unfortunate Claud Cockrot's canoe
or stuffin' Mum's much lamented
Moley the mole
or aquasealin' the crack in our loo
that poor Aunt Maud inadvertently made
whilst nervously droppin' a brick
after bein' informed that her pussy,
were pregnant by Arkwright's Dick.
And talkin' of bricks, I reckon them groats
could easily be kilned into cubes
or even moulded like fibreglass boats
or as a replacement for Bostik, in tubes.
Copyright; Ephraim Crud
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