I WAS FINED £50 AND GOT THREE POINTS ON MY POETIC LICENCE

I ran into my front room, which is at the back of the house, to confuse burglars and architects, I was laughing, chuckling, sniggering and tittering. "Tommy!" I yelled to my feline friend, "Come and listen to this poem I have written about Steven Nolan, if you are sitting comfortably, I will begin." "Hold on, hold on!" yelled Tommy. "If you're going to read a poem, you must look like a poet, thin, wan, pale and starving. You look like a big lump who has just eaten all the pies."
"You're right!" Tommy I yelled, "and when you're right, you're not wrong. Wait here, while I go up to the garret and starve for two years." "I'll be here." said Tommy, and true to his word he was. When I staggered down the stairs two years later, Tommy was sitting in the same chair, squeezing the same black head. Tommy looked up and said, "That's much better, you look thin, wan, pale and starving, just like a poet, go on now and read your poem about Steven Nolan."
"Tommy!" I gasped, "help me to the podium." "You can't have anything left to do." said Tommy. "It's just an urge, ignore it and it will go away." So here is the poem, read by me and listened to by Tommy. I shall recite the poem in a clipped, British accent.

He did not wear his brand new jeans
For they were far too tight
His cahonies were impressive
But he kept them out of sight
And examined them for chafing
In his bedroom every night.

Alas the weight was piling on
The jeans no longer fit
The gusset couldn't take the strain
So it just up and quit
The Greek said, "I can't help him"
His defeat he did admit.

He walks among the Tubby men
In a suit of shabby grey
The thin lad with the lean good looks
Alas he's gone away
"Burger, chips and onion rings"
I heard the fat youth say.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Standing at the chip shop
Staring at a pie
The look of love was on his face
And a tear was in his eye.

For each man eats the things he loves
Be it crisps or bars of Mars
Which leads to excess poundage
And the letting out of drawers
The stench of flatulence and curry
As he eats beneath the stars.

Some gobble food when they are young
And some when they are old
The poor with hands of poverty
The rich with spoons of gold
But worst by far is the man who eats
A curry when it's cold.

Some eat every thing in sight
They always clear their plate
Some eat food in bed each night
While chins-accumulate
Some even eat as they shed tears
And ponder on their fate.

Another pair of trousers-pop
As the belly grows too big
Some get disbelieving looks
From hippos and from pigs.
The greatest fiddler in the land
Couldn't make them dance a jig.

No, he did not wear his brand new jeans
When I saw him last night
He wore Pavarotti's trousers
And even they were getting tight
He grabbed greedily for his take-a-way
And then lumbered out of sight.

"Great!" yelled Tommy, "Satire at its best. You are indeed the greatest poet, that ever sat on a po." Then the poetic police burst in and dragged me away, for plagiarism--well, it could have been worse, they could have charged me for copying some one's work. Like I said at the top of the page, I was fined £50 and got three points on my poetic licence.
Next time I take a poem out for a run, I will obey the highway and indeed, the low way code.
Go now to.. www. rosie-ryan. blogspot. com
Toodles for now, and remember, if you're passing, keep on going, don't drop in. Kay-me-a-fault-yah. Or in Ulster/Scots-winny nee scunner coulters 'n' cromets-the noo.Parity of extreme.