Isn't it strange how some subjects are considered suitable ones on which to flex one's poetic muscles, and others are not?
Take last Saturday's walk for example. OK so I was happy enough to wax all lyrical about the glorious freedom to roam the Aberdeenshire hills (see previous post) but what I really wanted to commemorate was another aspect of the walk entirely.
I was getting some way towards describing in verse by far the most thrilling aspect of the day's outing when Gail stopped me firmly and said, "Bertie this is absolutely not all suitable."
I hope you'll agree she was being unfair....
How fine it is to sniff
A decomposing hare,
Oh what a pungent whiff,
Just nothing can compare.
I raced across the heath,
And there I found, its rank
And fetid guts hid right beneath
A gorse bush on a bank.
They lay before me in a state
Of sumptious putrefaction.
When Gail caught up it was too late,
I'd gorged to my full satisfaction.
When further on the walk I tried
To kiss Gail with my slime smeared nose,
She backed away in horror, cried,
"UGH BERTIE, DO NOT COME SO CLOSE!"
