A Poem To Celebrate Spring.

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which caused great consternation at UUP headquarters, when the backwoods men heard that Mike Nesbitt had been seen wearing pink socks.
"What does it MEAN?" croaked an old, 91 year old farmer, who had joined the UUP at the tender age of two and a half.
"CHANGE!" yelled a young, thrusting, sixty year old.
"Young Mike Nesbitt, with his pink socks, will drag the UUP, kicking and screaming, into the twenty first century."
"Hauld on, hauld on boys!" yelled the old backwoods man, "It's only a hop, skip and jump from pink socks to red socks as worn by the Pope!"
"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!" said Tommy my cat. "It takes some time for Mr Coyle to tell a joke. Take that joke about Mike Tyson and Henry McCullagh, I thought old Thaddeaus would never get to the punchline."
"I missed that!" I yelled. "Please sit me down on a chair and tell me the great joke."
Tommy put one foot up on a sleeping turtle and said,
"One day, Mike Tyson and Henry McCullagh were standing by the roadside waiting for a lift. A flock of pigeons flew over their head. Tyson looked up and said, "Fantail."
Henry McCullagh thought this was an insult directed at him and retorted,
"When you were boxing, you were often a tumbler."
I laughed so much, my false teeth flew out and bit Herbie the budgie on the bum.
I bit my lip, narrowed my eyes, puckered my mouth and said, "I am deeply worried about old Jordie Tuft. Not a dickey bird has been heard from the oracle. I hope old Jordie is not on the broad of his back, fighting off a malaise or an ague."
Tommy leaped up and yelled, "I have in my hand a piece of paper. It is a poem, written by Jordie Tuft to celebrate Spring.
Tommy cleared this throat and said, "SPRING by Jordie Tuft.
The Greening of the hedges
So beloved by birds and sedges
And sap, like syrup, rising in the trees
My old heart goes pitter-patter
I must soon be on the batter
I have sexual tingles running through my knees.

When I spy a nice wee dote
Wrapped up in a duffle coat
'Tis then I'll put my feathers on display.
I will dance beneath the stars
In a pair of old, grey drawers
And invite the little woman in for tay.

I will ply her with strong liquor
For I find it so much quicker
And make sure that the little dote is fed.
I will whisper in her ear
"Come with me and have no fear."
Then! how's your father, in a dunged out bed."
"That's-DISGUSTING!" I cried. "A litany of pure filth, masquerading under the guise of-poetry."
Tommy carefully put the poem back in his pocket and roared, "Well at least it rhymes, which is more than can be said for old, Seamus "Snug Pen" Heaney!!!!