Where was I now? Ah yes, I must insist
Wherever I was, I wasn’t turking you.
What saint would?
Although you were so pink and curvy cute.
But you and I rushed onto my rush mat
With bounce enough for
The four-and-twenty pet budgies
Which we did not possess.
As for the screw? You hated the machine
But I was proud of it
And folk would come for miles
To see our telamons
And to watch Edward, our sad donkey,
power old Archimedes.
You hated it a lot
Since that fell day
When, soaking wet and dizzy,
You spiralled up into
The irrigation channels.
Fish would have swum,
Budgies would have flown away
But pigs can neither swim nor fly.
They say the latter is a good job too,
And they are right.
I think you saw your Mum in that machine
Straight as a sow’s tail with teeth that nip
And with a bent for sitting on your head.
And where was I the while?
Knocking back the Guinness here
A saint, God bless him!,
And other holy Teagues at Ali’s bar,
Harping on to the Irish, stout chaps,
About your rubber bum
And hope-you-dont-mind ear.
(O Ali, take away this foaming brew,
Its far too black! Have you no paler ale?)
While you were being screwed.